And What Will Never Be
by Maddy77
Summary: 2008 was a bad year for everyone. DW S3; SPN S4
1. Prologue: September 2008

**Prologue: September, 2008**

**Martha Jones**

_She's running._

_Martha Jones is always running._

_Martha Jones feels her feet hit the ground, feels the dry coolness of South Dakota wind whip past her face, chafe her skin, feels muscles ache and cry out and feels joints protest the abuse._

_Martha Jones has been running for months now. Three months, four, something. Running across the world, jumping only when she's had no other choice, jumping out of England and jumping out of Japan and jumping farther and farther away from the Doctor but it's what he told her to do so she keeps running._

_Martha Jones ignores a stab of pain in her ankle and she runs._

_Martha Jones has a vortex manipulator, instructions, stubbornness, and little else to her name. The clothes on her back, one last hair-band to keep her hair out of her eyes as she runs and runs and runs and doesn't stop because she can't stop because they're always right behind her and she hasn't gotten everywhere yet, can't get everywhere, how is she supposed to get everywhere? Everywhere in the world?_

_Martha Jones has one place she's supposed to get to tonight, and that place is in the middle of nowhere in South Dakota, but there are worse places to be, these days. There are worse places than nowhere. Much worse. In fact, nowhere is perhaps the safest place that there is, anymore._

_Martha Jones has a mother and a father and a sister and two friends aboard an airship in England, trapped with a psychotic alien who's about to take over the whole world if she can't tell a story well enough. She's really afraid that she has three friends aboard that airship but she can't think about it or she'll stop running and cry and then the psychotic alien will win and that is unacceptable._

_Martha Jones ignores the pain in her ankle again._

_Martha Jones hears the crunch of acorns and twigs beneath her feet as she runs and hopes she's the only one who can hear it. She hopes that the spheres aren't listening or are farther away than she fears._

_Martha Jones is running to see faces that won't light up in recognition, faces she knows and loves like family and is dying to see, people whose embrace she craves in these dark and lonely times, people who have fought at her side and laughed at her jokes and held her in her tears, whose grief she has shouldered and whose triumphs she has celebrated and who will not know her face._

_Martha Jones is a name that has carried on the winds as far out as Nowhere, South Dakota, and she knows that one of the men she seeks will know it. The others will not. The others will not and that hurts more than her ankle._

_(Martha Jones ignores the pain in her ankle.)_

_Martha Jones stops running._

_Martha Jones suddenly knows the Toclaphane are not behind her._

_Martha Jones sees the Toclaphane in front of her._

_Martha Jones sees someone else in front of her._

_And Martha Jones runs faster than ever._

**Sam Winchester**

_Sam Winchester doesn't know what day it is anymore._

_At first, he made sure to remember. He'd count the days on the top of his bunk and they'd move him. He'd transfer the count to his new bunk and they'd move him again. He'd write a tally on his arm and it would fade away. Two months in he got desperate and thought about carving the count into his skin but didn't want to waste his strength and health when he needed it so desperately._

_Sam Winchester gets through the days by thinking about how much worse his brother's days are, and the grief and the anger help him ignore the pain._

_The pain isn't so bad anymore. It's not like Sam is unused to work. There are so many people in the camps here who aren't used to physical labor like Sam is, and for them, it is torture. He tries to help them. Sometimes he gets away with it, sometimes they're both punished for it._

_The only pain that counts is when he can't find Ruby for too long. She followed him here; said it didn't matter what Harold Saxon did, it didn't change Sam's destiny, his work. He couldn't afford to stop his progress. So she followed him, and when he can't find her in the camp, that pain he has trouble ignoring._

_Sam Winchester wonders if Bobby is still alive, a lot. He wonders if Singer Salvage is still intact. He wonders if the man who'd come to be his father survived the Great Decimation he'd heard about._

_He lets himself feel a little bit of relief that Dean didn't have to see this. As terrible a place as his brother has gone to, Dean would never have survived here, anyway. Dean couldn't have kept his head down and done what he needed to do to survive._

_Sam Winchester wonders, so frequently that it's almost become a prayer, where the Doctor is, and why he hasn't stopped this yet._

_But Sam Winchester is a fighter and a survivor, and Dean sold his soul to give Sam back his life, and Sam isn't going to waste that gift. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets, Sam is going to make it through this and wait quietly until the Doctor comes to save them, and in the meantime, save as many people as he can._

_So when the soldiers come to take him to the overseer, Sam Winchester doesn't put up a fight._

**Dean Winchester**

_Dean Winchester ignores the pain._

_Dean Winchester barely feels the pain._

_Because Dean Winchester has gotten out of Hell, and that is all there is right now._

* * *

Author's Note: I don't know why I can't go more than like three days without updating something. This is just a teaser; updating might be slower for this story than my previous stories in this 'verse, because this one's turning out to be pretty complicated. But I'm excited about it...

To remind, this story is fifth in a series. The order is currently "The Shadow Proclamation", "What Power", "A Mission Before Dying", and "The Child Eater". As always, I recommend going in order as I will reference earlier stories in this one.


	2. Chapter One: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: Here we go! This story will be told primarily from Martha's, Dean's, and Sam's points of view, and I'll be titling chapters by the POV character's name, but it will be pretty obvious whose eyes we're looking through. To my non-Whovian friends, this is may get pretty AU, but it'll all make sense by the end, I promise.

Thanks for all the instant gratification when I put up the prologue. I'm really excited about this story; I hope it lives up to everybody's expectations.

* * *

Dean didn't hurt.

Well, he hurt, but not as much as before, so much less than before that it felt like not hurting. Relatively, it was no pain at all. His fingernails were broken and the flesh beneath them bloodied, his lungs burned from oxygen deprivation, his muscles all ached from disuse and the sun beat down on him and he could feel his skin burning, but it was no pain at all.

Dean Winchester wasn't in Hell anymore.

(_Probably._)

The field around him hadn't always been a field, he knew. He saw the felled trees, like a bomb had gone off, and he knew at some level that it was related to his return to life. But he couldn't bring himself to care, just now. Instead, he sat on the ground, peeling off the over-shirt Sam and Bobby

(_Sam and Bobby_)

had buried him in and tying it around his waist. He touched his bare arms with trembling fingers, marveling at how intact his body was. How long was he dead? It felt like an eternity, and he knew it had been at the least decades. At his last count it was thirty-some-odd years, but that count couldn't be trusted because it all started to blur together. About twenty when the Doctor had come.

He knew it was thirty before he said yes.

He swallowed hard past the bile that rose in his throat at the thought of the last however-many years after that _yes_, and focused instead on just how much _not in Hell_ he was.

He felt the grass beneath his hands as he leaned back and saw the sun (_the sun he never thought he'd see the sun again how had he forgotten how blue the sky was and how beautiful clouds were and how Sammy used to pick out shapes in them he'd picked that up in first grade from some other kid because Dean had never learned that and Sammy came home and taught him about it and they sat all day and found shapes in clouds until it was dark outside_) and felt the breeze on his face. It felt like a caress, and his eyes stung.

He was nowhere, and there was nothing for him to gauge the date by. He just hoped that Sam and Bobby were still alive, that it hadn't been so long that Sam was an old man now, that he would at least get time to spend with his brother now that he was out. _Out_. He felt a laugh bubble in his throat, and he surprised himself when he let it out. It hurt, his throat was raw, but he hadn't made that noise for this reason in such a long time that the novelty shocked him. Laughing to piss of Alastair, he knew. Laughing so that he wouldn't start sobbing, he knew. Laughing because he was happy...

He shook his head briskly to pull himself together. Whenever it was, however long it had been, hanging out here wasn't going to give him any more time with Sam and Bobby, and he still had to _find_ them. He knew he'd died in Illinois, so he figured he was still in Illinois. The trick was getting back to South Dakota. If his baby were here, he'd be fine. But of course, Sammy had her. So Dean was stranded.

He stood up, and was amazed by how steady he was. No stumbling, no trembling. A thought occurred to him, and he pulled up the plain black t-shirt he'd been buried in—and sure enough, smooth skin was all he saw. No trace of the havoc the Hellhounds had wrought on his abdomen. In fact, some of the scars he'd had before, from earlier hunts, were gone. He frowned at that, and tugged the shoulder of his shirt down on the left side. He had a scar on that side before that he could always weave a good story around for girls at the bar, and—

Holy shit.

He released the fabric and instead shoved his sleeve up, staring at the angry red scar (welts?) in the shape of a handprint that now adorned his upper arm. What the hell. What the hell was that? Dean swallowed hard, trying really hard not to think about what that meant for the circumstances of his resurrection. Something had dragged him out of Hell. He touched the print gingerly, and it didn't hurt, although by all rights it looked like it should. But there was a kind of electricity to it, a staticky sort of feel to it, that Dean instinctively recognized as the afterimage left by the use of a massive amount of power. Sometimes he'd feel it where Alastair touched him to heal him after a day on the rack, but never to this extent. Whatever had pulled him out, it was big.

Now that he knew it was there, he couldn't stop thinking about it as he wandered to the closest town (a shell of a town, or the outskirts of a town...no one home at the gas station he came across first). He felt his shirt rubbing against it, and tried really hard to ignore it but found it difficult to do so.

The dusty phone booth in front of the gas station gave him at least one thing: there were fliers taped to it advertising a concert for June seventh, 2008. Given the weather he didn't think it was June, but the fact that the fliers were still there suggested that it wasn't too much past that. His heart lifted just a little bit at the thought—however much time had passed for him in Hell, maybe he could start again, here. Maybe he could find Sammy, the Sammy he'd left, like he'd left him, and they could just start over where they'd left off.

Like nothing had happened.

He could pretend that, for Sammy.

He stepped into the phone booth, dug into his pocket and felt a smile rise on his face as his fingers brushed against coins. A lighter and coins. Dean wasn't sure if Sam had just been covering his bases in case Hell turned out to be across the River Styx or if he'd been hoping Dean would need change for a phone call just like this one, but either way, he could always count on his kid brother to take care of him. He pulled out a quarter, slipped it into the phone, and dialed Sam's number.

A tinny female voice told him that Sam's ARC mobile phone had been disconnected, and Dean felt his heart sink.

He was about to pull another quarter from his pocket and let his fingers dial Bobby's familiar number when he heard a soft rustling behind him, felt something in the air, and his stomach tried to abandon ship through his throat. He froze.

"Dean Winchester."

There were voices behind the voice and the voices were not human and Dean felt his knees go weak. He turned, pressing his back against the glass wall of the phone booth, and stared ahead of himself with wide eyes, preparing himself for a fight he could not prepare for, it was too soon and he was too disoriented.

A man, a little smaller than Dean, with black hair and blue eyes and a tan trench coat stood in front of him. He was pretty unassuming except that it was way too hot for that trench coat, but Dean knew better. After thirty-something years in Hell, Dean knew better.

Dean decided he was going to say something sarcastic, something smart, like he always did, because it was time to get back to his old habits. He was going to say something about the trench coat, he was pretty sure. Something, something, tax accountant. Just a generic insult about the meatsuit, give him a second to take stock of the situation and see how the fugly would react.

Instead, and to his horror, he heard himself whisper, "Already?"

The man (creature) tilted his head to the side, too-sharp blue eyes narrowing, a picture of mild puzzlement and, unless Dean was imagining it, irritation. "I don't understand."

He took a step towards Dean and Dean pressed back harder against the glass, and the creature stopped. Dean knew his breathing was too quick, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage, knew he looked as scared as he felt but couldn't bring himself to care. He murmured, "Can't I even see my brother, first?"

Blue eyes narrowed further, slid off of his face into a distance behind his shoulder, considering. Considering his request? "First," the creature echoed. Blue eyes returned to Dean's. "First implies a sequence of events. First before what, Dean?"

"Before you take me back," Dean said, his voice a little stronger now with frustration. "Like I don't know what you're here for. Something pulled me out; you're here to drag me back."

The creature's face cleared, the confusion fading away, and he took a step closer again. Again Dean pressed against the glass, edging away, but this time the creature did not relent. Step by step, in a progression as inexorable as the tide, he approached Dean.

Dean tensed, shutting his eyes as the creature closed on him.

He winced as he felt the creature's hand on his arm, then opened his eyes wide as it slid up under the sleeve of his shirt, and rested perfectly against his vicious new scar.

He stared at the creature, who watched him cautiously, with a neutral expression belied by the intensity of his gaze. "_I_ pulled you out of the Pit, Dean Winchester," he said. "I am not here to bring you back."

"Who are you?" Dean breathed, looking at his shoulder and the creature's hand and marveling at the perfect fit of hand on handprint, marveling at the seemingly primal memory of that contact that brought him such a feeling of relief, of salvation and of trust, when he had absolutely no reason to trust this creature.

There was no response, and Dean looked up, and only then did his savior reply, "I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord."

It broke the spell. Dean pulled away, squeezing out of the confining booth and backing up a few steps. "Right," he said, watching the creature. "You're an angel."

"Yes," Castiel said, missing Dean's inflection.

"No such thing," Dean spat. That earned him another narrowing of Castiel's eyes, another birdlike head-tilt. Dean tried a new tactic. "And even if you were, why would an _angel_ save me from Hell? An _angel_ would know what I've done."

That last bit wasn't supposed to come out, and Dean felt the blood drain from his face.

(What if he _was_ an angel and what if he _hadn't_ known but he would now and he'd throw him right back in oh god why did he have to say that he was back on Earth and he was going to find Sammy but now he was never going to get the chance he was going to get sent right back and when he got back there'd be no Offer no respite just the rack—)

"An angel would, and I do know what you've done," Castiel said, interrupting his thoughts with an odd look on his face as though he knew what was running through Dean's head and was faintly annoyed and slightly concerned by it, "and it is of no consequence at this juncture. We have work for you."

"Work?" Dean echoed numbly. Castiel nodded, and then looked up sharply right before Dean got a chance to say, _we?_

"Not here," he said, and strode quickly up to Dean, who flinched away. He stopped, very much inside Dean's personal bubble, and frowned. He raised his hand slowly, tentatively, and Dean followed the movement with wide eyes. Castiel looked puzzled. "You don't need to be afraid."

"'M not afraid," Dean muttered.

Castiel frowned deeper. "You don't need to lie, either," he said. "I know what was done to you. But I'm not going to hurt you. Something is wrong here; we're not safe. I will take you to safety."

"Take me to Bobby's," Dean said, and when Castiel looked a bit put-out he added, "please?"

Castiel looked irritated for a brief moment, and then asked, a bit brusquely, "What is Bobby's?"

"Singer Salvage, in South Dakota," Dean replied, hoping he sounded appropriately contrite.

Castiel's eyes grew distant for another moment, and then he nodded. "It is acceptable. Far enough away from urban centers. We will go to Bobby's."

Dean watched the angel's (_angel's?_) fingers, two pressed together and held out gently like he'd seen in paintings of saints, until his eyes crossed as they approached his forehead. He then quickly shut his eyes and braced himself for whatever it was Alastair was going to do to him when he got back because they weren't going to Bobby's, and it was a trick, and he was getting sent back where he belonged, where he'd _agreed_ to go and where he would agree to go again because it meant Sammy was okay, but even so he couldn't help but wish he could just see Sammy one more time before he went back to remind himself why—

It felt like the ground was pulled out from under him, and it felt like he was plummeting down the highest crest of a roller-coaster (and Dean never liked roller-coasters), and it felt like he was flying (which he wasn't fond of, either). Eyes wrenched shut, he reached out and grabbed for purchase, finding only the rough material of a trench coat. He gripped it tight and prayed for his stomach to calm.

Suddenly, the sensation abated, and he opened his eyes. Castiel's unsettlingly expressionless face filled his vision, and he took a step back, prying his shaking fingers off of the angel's coat. "Sorry," he muttered. Castiel looked confused by the apology, but said nothing. Dean looked around, and felt the breath leave him in a rush.

He staggered back a step, and out of his peripheral vision saw Castiel move forward, slightly—to catch him, if need be? The idea seemed unfathomable, absurdly protective, and for that reason and in a way he would never, ever admit out loud, Dean cherished it. Almost as much as he cherished the sight in front of him.

"Oh my god," he breathed. "I don't..."

"Is this not the correct place?" Castiel asked, managing to sound concerned and aggrieved and deadpan all at the same time. Dean shook his head wordlessly, and Castiel sighed. "We will try again."

"No," Dean said quickly, backing out of Castiel's reach. The angel stopped, fingers still pressed together, lips in a tight, frustrated line. "No, it's, this is Bobby's. It is. This is Bobby's." Dean looked at the house, the house he knew so well, the only home he'd known since his burned with his mother, and he managed a shaky smile. "Oh, my god. This is Bobby's."

"So you keep saying," Castiel remarked flatly, and Dean turned to him. "I imagine we can take shelter in the house?"

"Yeah," Dean said automatically, then processed Castiel's words. "Wait, shelter?"

A low buzzing sound faded into Dean's hearing, and Castiel grabbed him by the arm (_his grip so much stronger than it had any right to be_) and strode quickly up the stairs to Bobby's porch. The angel touched the door that Dean knew was secured by an impressive array of locks, and it opened easily. Castiel shoved Dean inside, following him and slamming the door shut behind him. He gestured sharply and the locks all snapped into place.

Dean stood, stock-still, behind the angel, and watched as Castiel's shoulders rose and fell evenly, while the rest of him remained absolutely still, waiting, ready. The buzzing intensified, and Dean saw Castiel tense as it peaked, then relax as it faded away. The angel's shoulders fell, and he turned around, opening his mouth to say something. Abruptly his eyes fixed on a spot over Dean's shoulder and narrowed, and he threw his hand up, fingers tense, expression little short of wrathful.

Dean whirled around to find Bobby, pistol pointed at precisely where his head would have been, frozen in place with a look of surprise on his face. "Bobby?" Dean said, and Bobby said nothing in return, didn't move or blink. Dean turned to Castiel. "What did you do to him?" he asked, the look on Castiel's face keeping his tone from getting too sharp. He didn't want that look trained on him.

Castiel glanced at him, keeping his hand raised. "He planned to shoot you," the angel said. "I could not allow that to happen."

"Let him go," Dean said, and Castiel's look turned oddly _stubborn_. Dean sighed. "I've been...dead. He doesn't think I'm human anymore. He thinks something's pretending to be me. Just..." Dean took the pistol from Bobby's hand, and held it pointed at the ceiling. "Please. He just needs to figure out that it's me."

Castiel looked doubtful, but lowered his hand, and Bobby gasped, stumbling slightly as he regained control over his muscles. He raised his hand as though he still held the pistol, intending to point it at Castiel, but quickly realized he'd been disarmed. He glared at Castiel, then at Dean. His expression darkened considerably when his eyes fell on Dean. "What the hell are you?" he growled. "No, on second thought, I don't _care_ what you are, but if you know what's good for you you'll stop wearing that boy's face."

"Bobby, it's me," Dean said, keeping the gun out of Bobby's reach. "Look, I don't get it, either, but it's me. It's Dean."

"My ass," Bobby snapped.

"He is telling the truth," Castiel offered, breaking his silence. Bobby turned back to him, his eyes wary. "He is Dean Winchester, returned from Hell. He is unchanged."

"And who the hell are _you_ supposed to be?" Bobby demanded. Castiel's eyes narrowed, but Bobby didn't back down, unarmed and outnumbered as he was. Dean felt a swell of pride. Bobby hadn't changed at all.

"Castiel," the angel said. "An angel of the Lord."

Bobby scoffed. "Sure," he said. "You're an angel, and he's my dead kid. Got a bridge to sell me, too?"

Castiel took a step towards Bobby, and despite the fact that he had no height advantage, he managed to pull off _menacing_ quite well. "Your belief or lack thereof is irrelevant, Robert Singer," he said. "My mission does not involve you. Dean wished to take refuge here, and so we are here."

"Get the holy water," Dean said suddenly, and Bobby and Castiel both turned to him. "Get the holy water, Bobby. Get the silver knife. Whatever you need to do. It's me. Bobby, I swear it's me. And even if _he_ doesn't, _I_ need you to believe me."

Bobby swallowed hard, then nodded. "Fine," he said. "But the two of you go ahead of me. My library. Get."

Dean looked at Castiel, who didn't look happy, but followed him into the library without comment. Dean inhaled deeply as he entered the library—the smell of books was always Sam's (_Sam he was going to see Sammy again_) weird thing to geek out about, but in that moment, Dean couldn't think of a scent he'd rather smell. Old books, old whiskey, and whatever crap food Bobby had whipped up for himself lately. Dean smiled.

Bobby walked in after them, grabbing a flask of holy water and his silver knife off of one of the shelves. "Arm," he barked, and Dean obediently held his arm out. Bobby tipped the flask and spilled holy water over it, holding the knife at the ready just in case. When Dean didn't flinch, he capped the flask and put it away, and laid the knife against the inside of Dean's arm. Castiel stepped forward, that thunderous look on his face again, and Dean lifted his free hand.

"It's okay," he said, and Castiel clearly didn't believe him, so he continued, "He's just making sure I'm human."

Castiel didn't back up, but he didn't step forward again, either, and Bobby pressed the knife down and sliced a clean cut in Dean's forearm. Dean hissed, but bore it.

The wound, of course, only bled, didn't bubble or burn, and Bobby's angry, grieved expression transformed into one of disbelief and tentative hope. "Dean?" he asked, his voice soft.

"I've been telling you," Dean said. "It's me, Bobby. I'm back."

Bobby put his hands on Dean's shoulders, just studying him for a long moment, and then pulled him into a tight hug. "How?" he rasped.

Dean shrugged, a gesture made difficult by Bobby's embrace. "My new buddy over there says he did it," he said.

Bobby released him with an exhalation that was almost a sigh of relief, and turned to Castiel, who was watching the proceedings with equanimity. As Dean grabbed a roll of bandages off of the bookshelf and wrapped up his arm, Bobby walked up to the angel and grasped his hand. Castiel looked mildly surprised, staring at his hand between Bobby's. "Thank you," Bobby said vehemently. "Thank you for bringing my boy back to me."

Castiel said nothing, evidently stunned into silence by Bobby's gesture, and equally evidently still wondering what the Hunter was doing to his hand and if he was going to get it back, eventually. When the moment became awkward, Bobby let go of the angel's hand, rubbed his face vigorously, and said, "This calls for a beer." He strode off into the kitchen, and Dean, shooting a grin he couldn't contain at Castiel, who still looked bemused, followed him.

Bobby was already closing the door to the fridge when they got to the kitchen, and there were three beers on the table. Dean picked one up and popped the cap, then looked at the bottles, and at Castiel. Bobby caught his train of thought, and looked flustered.

"I, ah," he stammered. "I, ah, I didn't know if, you know, angels..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aw, hell. You want a beer, Castiel, angel of the Lord?"

Castiel regarded the bottle severely, looking up at Bobby and intoning, "I require neither food nor sustenence, and certainly not alcohol. I will refrain."

Bobby and Dean exchanged a glance, and Bobby slowly took the third bottle off of the table and put it back in the fridge.

"What was that thing outside, Cas?" Dean asked, the nickname rolling off his tongue before he could stop it. He tensed, waiting to see how the angel would react. (Who was he to give an angel of the Lord a _nickname_?)

Castiel looked momentarily confused, but once he deciphered that Dean was indeed speaking to him, he replied, "I'm not sure. I feel that something has gone amiss. I have spent a great deal of time searching for you, and have been unable to observe the events on Earth. Perhaps your friend can enlighten us." With that he turned his head expectantly to Bobby, who remained quiet.

Dean let him have a moment, then said, "Bobby? What was that thing? The thing buzzing."

Bobby shook his head slowly, dismally. "Lot of things have changed since you've...been gone, boy," he said. "Not all good. Hell, not mostly good."

"Like what?" Dean asked, positive he didn't want to know the answer. Typical Winchester luck: best day of his life, he gets pulled from Hell by a no-shit _angel_ and gets back to find out something's gone pear-shaped with the world. He braced himself.

"It's a long story," Bobby began, but Dean cut him off with a gesture.

"Okay, long story, sure," he said. "But let's start with getting Sam's ass down here so we can do this reunion proper. His number was disconnected. Do you know his new one?"

The way Bobby went still at the mention of Sam's name was enough to send Dean's heart plummeting to his stomach. "Bobby?" he said. "Bobby, where's Sam?"

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his grip on his beer whitening his knuckles. "It kills me to tell you this," he said. "This should...you don't deserve more bad news, son. But Sam...he's missing."

"Missing," Dean echoed, his voice hollow, his chest hollow, and he knew that if he just waited it would fill up with rage and grief and terror. "Missing for how long?"

Bobby set his jaw and said, "Three months."

"You have _no idea_ where he could be?" Dean demanded.

Bobby looked up at the ceiling as though requesting divine assistance, and said, "That's the worst part. I'm pretty sure I know _exactly_ where he is."


	3. Chapter Two: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: So I've been able so far to keep up the every-other-day posting schedule, and it's one I'd like to do my best to keep up in the future, but fair warning: the next chapter's likely to be a little late. I'm having some work/school related problems, mostly involving my department preventing me from getting a really good job, and I'm pretty down about it so the writing's not coming easily. So if the next chapter is a day or two late, I hope everybody will understand.

I hope you enjoy this chapter (I feel like I'm starting to get Sam's voice better), I promise we'll get more Whovian soon, and if you have a moment to send a poor, sad grad student your thoughts in some lovely reviews it would boost my spirits. :)

* * *

The day started off for Sam pretty much like every day started off for Sam, lately.

The blaring of what he was almost positive by this point were air-raid sirens from the Cold War woke him, and he thought, _If anybody's listening, let Bobby be alive. Let Dean be brave. Let the Doctor find us._

That prayer delivered, that mantra begun, Sam stood up from his bunk and stretched. It was nearly five, and if he was late, there would be punishment. So he shrugged on his jeans and shirt, both torn and dirty, and looked across the room to his bunk-mate.

He smiled softly and shook his head, leaning over and prodding the sleeping figure, who grunted and curled up tighter. "The wake-up call is going off," he said, keeping his voice low. "You've got to get up before anybody comes in."

He was met with another grunt and the dismissive wave of a hand. He caught the wrist with gentle fingers and sat down on the bed, tugging on the wrist until its owner sat up grudgingly. Her dark hair was tousled, and as her brown eyes blinked open, a pout pulled down the corners of her full lips. "You're no fun," she murmured.

"None," Sam agreed, pulling her up and giving her a kiss on the forehead. "Come on. Seriously, get up."

Ruby threw the thin sheet off petulantly, rolling her shoulder to work out a knot from the uncomfortable bed and throwing her head back in a fit of drama. "I don't _want_ to," she whined.

"News flash, Ruby," Sam said, grabbing his over-shirt from the floor by his bed and pulling it on, "nobody cares what you want anymore." He buttoned his shirt quickly, casting an anxious glance out the window to gauge the light. He still had a few minutes.

"I can leave whenever I want to, you know," she retorted. "I'm not stuck here like you are."

Sam paused in buttoning his cuff, and walked over to the bed. He knelt at the edge of it, taking Ruby's face into his hands and tracing her temple with his thumb. "I know," he said, "and I'm grateful. Don't think I'm not." He let his right hand fall from her face, and gently touched a place on her inner arm, a faint scar, almost healed.

"Oh, I know you're grateful," Ruby said, and there was something in her voice, something a little hard-edged and a little controlling and that Sam didn't entirely like. "Can't get by without me."

Sam pressed his lips together, but didn't say anything, because she wasn't wrong. Instead, he just rubbed his thumb over that scar silently.

The moment passed, and he stood, holding his hands out for her. She sighed and took his hands, standing, then letting him go and pulling on the jeans she'd left pooled by her bed. "I'll be gone before anybody checks the room, don't worry. But I don't know what you're so scared about, Sammy."

"Sam," he corrected her automatically. He saw her stop in the middle of pulling on her shirt, then resume, turning around as she tugged the shirt down around her midriff.

"Sam," she echoed. "I don't know why you're worried. I could take care of anybody who found me here."

"I just don't want to cause trouble," he said. "People get hurt when I cause trouble."

"Sheep," Ruby scoffed.

"Ruby," Sam scolded. "Come on. We just need to keep our heads down until—"

"Until the Doctor comes to save you?" Ruby asked, heat rising in her voice. Sam said nothing. They'd had this argument before, and he knew it pretty much by heart. "Sam, he's not coming. It's been _months_."

Sam recited his part. "The Doctor's not great at the timely landings."

"He'd make an exception for this," Ruby said. "Sam, you know he would. If he was gonna come, he'd be here. He'd have stopped this." She rolled her eyes and her nose wrinkled just a little bit as she added, "You are his golden boy, after all."

Sam shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and rubbing his shoulder where he'd been injured just a few days before. He hated it when Ruby said that kind of thing. She didn't understand. She didn't understand what had happened between him and the Doctor, didn't understand the burdens that they carried for each other. The Doctor had been tortured in Hell for years to save Sam and Dean; it was the Doctor's blood that gave Sam his visions, that was the impetus for his mother's death and the ruin of his family. _Golden boy_ was such a stupid oversimplification for the debts they owed one another, and he was pretty sure that at this point Ruby only did it to make him angry. She seemed to be doing that more, lately—pissing him off just for the hell of it, because she knew he wouldn't do anything back. Couldn't, because he needed her too much. To remind him, maybe, that she had the power here.

So all he did was button the last button on his cuff, say "Sure," and walk out the door before Ruby could say anything else.

The weather was beginning to cool down, and for that small mercy Sam was grateful. Hauling the metal to the camp in the torrid heat of July and August had been a misery, but at least it had meant getting out of the perimeters of the camp for a little while. Since they'd finished bringing the metal, or the bulk of it, the gates had been closed off and no one went in or out. He hadn't seen the outside world in weeks.

If rumors were to be believed, though, there wasn't much to see anymore. The Celebrity Purge and the Great Decimation had occurred really early on—ten percent of the Earth's human population, dead, just like that, along with world leaders and prominent entertainers across the globe. The Celebrity Purge had been when Sam was still with Bobby; the Great Decimation, just days after the last time they'd spoken. Everyone said things had gotten worse since then, although Sam wasn't sure how that was possible.

Information was hard to come by, even about what they themselves were doing. It was obviously weapons manufacturing—obvious to Sam, at least, but maybe he just knew a weapon when he saw it. The people who ran the camp were extremely careful to keep each phase of construction separate from every other phase, to the point where workers in each phase were kept in discrete areas of the camp. Sam worked on Phase 3; he'd never run across a worker from any other Phase, even by accident, even by chance.

His guess was rockets. Rockets of some kind. Harold Saxon needed giant rockets equipped with _something_, because while he didn't know much about nuclear physics he was pretty sure the camp didn't have the kind of equipment necessary to make a nuke. Whatever was added, it was in Phase 4, and he just had a sinking feeling about it. He couldn't fathom what Saxon was going to do with them, because when they were completed, they were just kind of...planted. Stockpiled. Trucks would come and move them, but there were some that stayed at the camp, stuck in the silos that dotted the perimeter.

All in all it wasn't something Sam really wanted to be a part of, but he didn't have a choice. Nobody did, anymore. The Master had—no, Sam reminded himself firmly, _Harold Saxon_ had taken over, and it was the beginning of a glorious new empire, and human freedom had no place in that empire. More and more, it was appearing that human _life_ had no place in that empire. The whispers that ran through the camp talked about whole countries being exterminated, continents starting to become barren of humanity. There wasn't a place on the planet that hadn't been overcome with Harold Saxon and his Spheres, whatever they were, aside from death machines.

The only whispers that gave anybody hope talked about a woman named Martha, a woman who'd escaped from England when Saxon took over, who was building a weapon to bring him down. Nobody knew what Saxon was, but he wasn't human, and he couldn't be killed by a normal weapon. (Sam wished, so fervently, that he'd been able to get a shot at him—silver bullets, holy water, Devil's traps, rock salt, there were so many things he could try that civilians wouldn't have thought of. But he knew, realistically, that there hadn't been time, and even if he'd been in London he wouldn't have had a chance to try his options.)

Martha, though, Martha Jones, she knew of a weapon that could kill him, the rumors said. Martha was walking the Earth to find the components she needed, and she was going to save the world. Martha had a plan. Martha had found the first of the parts she needed. Martha escaped from London. Martha was going to save them.

Sam didn't believe that Martha Jones existed, frankly.

But Sam still believed in the Doctor, so he wasn't despairing quite yet.

He walked through the work camp, through the ramshackle barracks and the towering gunmetal grey workhouses. He nodded to some of his fellow Phase 3 workers, and they bobbed their heads nervously back. Except for one, who grinned and jogged up to him.

"Rise and shine, Sam!" Matt's grin hadn't died in all these months, and it hadn't stopped being contagious. He was a small man, a little older than Sam (_about Dean's age_, his mind supplied, and Sam tried to ignore it), with dark, curly hair and a sedentary office worker's physique. He'd been one of the prisoners Sam tried to protect during the load-in period, and Matt had been very grateful. He'd attached himself to Sam since then, in a way, and if he was going to be honest, Sam didn't mind the company. He smiled back at him.

"I don't know about _shine_," Sam said: his customary reply.

"Long night last night?" Matt asked.

Sam blinked past flashes of the previous night—flashes of blood and pain and power and intimacy—and said, "You could say that."

He and Matt walked into the Phase 3 workhouse together, pausing to be checked in by one of the stone-faced, black-clad supervisors. Once they'd been logged, they walked quietly to their stations, as they did every day.

It was assembly-line work, much preferable to the heavy lifting they'd been doing, but still arduous. Sam and Matt had managed to maneuver themselves into position as partners on the line, so Sam could shoulder a little more of the work until Matt got his strength up. They both picked up the welding helmets they left at their stations and fitted them over their heads, and got to work.

The work was hard but monotonous, and Sam found himself easily lulled into a routine. And at least, he thought, it was keeping him in shape for the inevitable day when the Doctor came and they needed to fight. (Maybe the Doctor wouldn't be happy with it, but he was going to get a couple of swings in to the traitors who'd sided with Saxon against their own species.) Matt did the detail work, the spot-welding and making sure the panels were in the right places, and Sam did the lifting.

Matt's voice was very low, barely audible over the dull roar of the workhouse, as he said, "They say Japan's gone."

Sam stopped for just a moment, then got back to work, hoping no one noticed his lapse. "What do you mean, _gone_?" he asked.

"Well, not gone," Matt amended, "not like, the whole country is gone. But they say there was an attack, the Spheres attacked, and nobody survived. All of Japan."

"Christ," Sam murmured, shoving a panel into place with unnecessary force. "How many people is that?"

"More than one hundred million," Matt replied, his voice dull. "The attack only lasted a day. A hundred million people in one day." He tilted his welding helmet down, and Sam followed suit. He hit the edges of the panels, his hands trembling only very slightly. He still managed a serviceable line. When he finished, he popped up the visor of his helmet and said, "They're not going to let any of us survive, are they."

"Don't talk like that," Sam said. "We're gonna make it out of this. We are. Just keep your head down."

Matt laughed. "Yeah. Okay, Sam. Whatever you say."

They continued their work, but Sam couldn't get his head wrapped around what Matt had said. One hundred million people. More than that. All dead, all because of Harold Saxon and his Spheres.

_Doctor, where the hell are you?_

Sometimes Sam wished that his connection to the Doctor, the connection he'd felt since the first time he'd seen him in that vision of Ellen's, would extend so far as to let him deliver a message. The message would be strongly-worded, that's for sure. _Where the hell have you been these past months. __Why didn't you come back for us. Don't you see what's happening? Do you care? Hundreds of millions of people dead, Doctor, where were you?_

But Sam knew. In a small, dark place in his mind, a place that Ruby kept prodding, he knew that if the Doctor knew what was going on, he'd be here. Nothing could keep him from the Earth when it was in danger like this. So what happened?

He slammed his fist down on a panel, and Matt startled, then looked around the workhouse. He grew very still and then turned back around, fiddling with his blowtorch, and said as quietly as he could while still being heard, "Look busy, Sam. The supervisor's heading this way."

Sam took Matt's advice and began to fix the panel into its proper position. He almost had it in place when he heard a crisp, British-accented voice say, "Samuel Winchester."

He stilled, his hands flat against the panel, and took a moment to calm himself before turning. "I'm Sam Winchester," he said softly.

He knew he shouldn't have hit the panel. He knew it would be too loud, draw too much attention. And his shoulder still hurt from the last time he was made an example of. For all that he talked about keeping his head down...he should have taken his own advice more. But Japan. All of Japan. Every man, woman, and child.

"Head of Camp is asking for you," the supervisor said, and Sam could swear he looked nervous. The man fidgeted with his gun, and Sam held out his hands, placating.

"Okay," he said. "That's—okay. I'll come with you."

The man nodded tightly, and Sam turned to Matt. "Don't worry," he said with a tight smile. "I'll be right back."

Matt looked panicked, but Sam was grateful for his composure as he said, "Okay, Sam. Be careful, all right?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Yeah, I will be."

He let the supervisor lead him away from Matt, out into the morning that was just starting to show the colors of sunrise. Sam looked up at the sky.

_Now would be a great time, Doctor._

The Head of Camp's office was located all the way across the facility, and so Sam was walked through the workhouse area of Phase 4 for the first time. It made his skin prickle. There wasn't as much noise as in Phase 3...just a low sort of humming, an almost warm sound, and an energy that he could feel vibrating in his bones. Something was being built in there that had no business being built by ordinary people.

Ordinary people. He looked to his left at the man leading him through the camp, and he frowned. "Are you from London?" he asked.

The man startled, just a little, and glanced quickly at Sam and then away. He said nothing.

"Is your family okay?" Sam asked. "Have they let you hear from them?"

The man faltered a step, and Sam saw him bite the inside of his cheek. "I can't talk to you," he said quietly.

"Okay," Sam said quickly. "That's okay. You don't have to. I just...I hope your family's okay, that's all."

The man barked out a laugh, and Sam watched him cautiously. "Why," the man began, then broke off and shoved his fist in front of his mouth, stifling another laugh or something else, Sam wasn't sure. "Why do you have to do that?"

"Do..." Sam echoed.

"This job is hard enough," the man said. "Don't make me talk to you. Don't act like you care about my _family_. Okay? Please."

Sam nodded silently, lowering his eyes.

A moment passed before he asked, "Are you going to kill me?"

The man looked up at him, and said, "No. No, Head of Camp wanted you unharmed. I don't think he's going to kill you."

Sam nodded again, content with that answer, given that it was the best he was likely to get.

They finally arrived at the offices: sterile and unadorned as the rest of camp, with nothing to really mark it as the place where the only free humans in the whole place lived. Maybe that was on purpose. Sam wouldn't have done anything to them, of course—it wasn't in his nature—but there were lots of angry, mostly helpless people in the camp who might have decided that the only way out was though the offices, aided by lots of persuasive violence.

The supervisor led him in, and Sam looked around himself. It looked a lot like the workhouses, actually, and it occurred to him that maybe these people weren't so free, themselves. Maybe it was just a different kind of slavery. Maybe he'd underestimated Saxon's power; maybe the self-proclaimed _Master_ didn't need any human collaborators. Maybe the Spheres were enough.

"I have Samuel Winchester, to see the Head of Camp," the supervisor said to a thin young woman at the desk. She nodded, fast, anxious movements, and picked up a phone. She repeated the message, her voices high and breathy, and then hung up the phone.

"You can go on in," she said, and then looked for the first time at Sam. There was something odd in her eyes, something a little bit frightened and a little bit awed. Sam smiled at her, and she looked away quickly, shuffling papers in the manner of someone pretending to be busy.

He frowned, and followed the supervisor through a set of double doors into another room.

It was a waiting room, and it was furnished with uncomfortable-looking, threadbare chairs and sofas. The supervisor gestured for Sam to sit, and upon doing so, it was confirmed for him that the furniture was, indeed, uncomfortable.

He'd never been here before. Never had the occasion to. He'd known people to be sent here, before; they never came back. No one had seen the Head of Camp, or at least no one Sam had ever spoken to. He was a mysterious figure, and probably on purpose. It referred some of Saxon's power to him. Saxon's feet never touched the Earth; the Head of Camp's face was never seen. So Sam had no idea what to expect.

Another young woman walked into the room. She was less thin than the girl at the desk; she looked like she ate better. Her blonde hair was swept back into a bun, and she wore a skirt and blouse rather than the all-black uniform of the rest of the camp's security and staff. "The Head will see you now," she said, her eyes barely flicking up to catch a glimpse of Sam.

What were they telling people about him?

Sam allowed himself to be led into the room, and seated in front of a desk. The Head of Camp sat in front of him.

He was younger than Sam had expected, maybe in his late thirties, with some grey sprinkling his black hair. He wore the same uniform as everyone else, and his face was severe, if not unattractive. "Samuel Winchester," he said. Unsurprisingly, he, too, was British.

"Yes, sir," Sam said.

The Head pulled out a manila folder that had Sam's name typed on the tab. Sam didn't try too hard to get a look at it. "Evidently the Master has had his eye on you for a while," he said, and Sam felt a shock run through him. "He's quite interested in you. He thinks you have potential."

"Potential for what?" Sam asked, and the Head looked surprised that he'd spoken out of turn. He quieted, and sat back in his chair.

"That's not for me to know," the Head remarked pointedly. "Or you, for that matter, Samuel. Suffice it to say that you are a person of interest, and that you should be glad that you are. You're being transferred."

Sam didn't say anything, but he froze, and his eyes locked onto the Head's. Transferred?

"Away from the camp," he said. "No more hard labor for you. Aren't you glad?"

Sam kept silent for another moment, before he realized that the question was not rhetorical, and that the Head was waiting for an answer. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, very, yes. Thank you. Sir." He felt pretty sure that he managed to twist his features into something that almost looked like gratitude while all he could feel was sick anticipation churning in his stomach.

Evidently _almost_ was good enough for horse-shoes, hand grenades, and the Head of Camp, because the man smiled and stood from his chair. "We will facilitate your transfer immediately," he said, "as the Master is fairly insistent that you arrive posthaste."

The supervisor from his workhouse gripped Sam's arm and guided him standing, while Sam stammered, "Now? Now, as in, now?"

_Ruby_, his mind screamed, _Ruby, Ruby._ He couldn't go anywhere. He couldn't leave without her.

"Yes," the Head replied, sounding amused, "now as in now, Mr. Winchester." He turned to two black-clad figures, both wearing berets and carrying rifles, and said, "Prep him for transport."

The two figures strode forward in lock-step and grabbed Sam by the arms. He thought about fighting for a moment, but realized that, for once in his life, he was unarmed, and didn't stand a chance against their weaponry. If he struggled, they'd just shoot him, and that wouldn't do anybody any good.

(That same part of his brain screamed _if they take you from Ruby you might as well die it might be preferable,_ and he did his best to ignore it.)

So he stood still between the two soldiers, controlling his breathing carefully as the man to his right hit some buttons on a device he wore on his wrist. Sam shivered. Something was wrong here. There was something wrong with some part of this, something that shouldn't exist. He'd felt like that once before, he knew, that feeling that something was _off_, that something was at odds with the rest of the universe, if he could only think...

He couldn't figure it out before the man finished setting his device and gripped Sam's arm. The Head of Camp smiled at him and gave a flippant salute, saying, "Have a safe trip, Mr. Winchester."

And suddenly Sam was no longer at the camp.

Suddenly Sam was somewhere much worse.


	4. Chapter Three: Martha Jones

Author's Note: So my muse stopped by last night and I was able to get a big chunk of this chapter done, so no wait! Hooray! And I didn't get the job but I've decided to look at the pros. Thank you for all your kind words on the last chapter; it really did make my days better. You are lovely and I love you.

Whovians, thank you for your patience! Here is the lovely Martha Jones!

* * *

Martha took a moment to catch her breath.

It seemed like that was a lot of what she did, these days: run, and catch her breath. But that last jump out of Japan had been almost too slow, and she couldn't deny the adrenaline flooding through her veins.

She couldn't deny the relief at the familiarity of her surroundings, either, although she was fully aware that at any minute it was going to be perverted by the Master's machinations. Every other place she'd been to had been. But while it lasted, she allowed herself a moment to be glad that she was alive. She'd mourn the dead later.

She ran quick fingers over her vortex manipulator, making sure like she did every time that it hadn't been damaged in the jump. It looked fine, but she knew that it was old and used, and each time she worried that it would fail her. She'd barely made it out of Japan before—

No. Not the time to think about that.

Hands on her knees, she let her breathing return to normal, let the trembling in her limbs fade until she could stand steadily. She felt a numbness in her ankle that she knew was going to blossom into pain soon enough, and did her best to not think about it. A sprained ankle wasn't too high a price to pay for a jump as sudden as the one she'd just made. She didn't even take a look at it; it would just make it hurt worse, she decided. She passed a hand that barely trembled at all over her face, and took stock of her surroundings.

She found herself in a wooded area just outside of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. An odd place for the Master to build anything—well. Maybe not _odd_ so much as _unsettling_, because Martha knew, in the true grand scheme of things, how important Sioux Falls was. The Master shouldn't know. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach to think that he might have figured it out.

Of all the places in America she thought she'd come to call her second home in the course of her travels with the Doctor, rural South Dakota wasn't on the top of her list. He'd brought her to so many fantastic places, planets she'd never dreamed of, times she'd only read about in history classes, and yet there was a part of her that truly thought nothing had been as wonderful as Sioux Falls, because Sioux Falls had become something more for her. The taste of the air, the wide expanse of sky, everything about it felt like home now. It felt like home, and in these terrible months, she'd wanted nothing more than her second family.

That was the worst part, Martha thought as she started to walk again despite the aching of her legs. Stopping too long would only make it worse, she knew, so she walked. The worst part of it all was that she was _home_, in a way that was almost more home than London, now. A way that was almost TARDIS-home. And there were two things about that fact that broke her heart.

The first was that anything could have happened. The Great Decimation was months ago, and that left a one-in-ten chance that any one of her South Dakota family was dead. Of course, she knew that they were survivalists in the absolute most literal sense of the term, but that wouldn't matter against the Toclaphane if they targeted them. Any one of them could be dead. All of them could be dead.

(Well, two of them, in any likelihood, if she was going to be realistic instead of morose. She knew the other two hadn't been around for the Great Decimation, and one of them even the Toclaphane would find hard to kill in any kind of permanent way.)

The second thing was that when she got home, nobody would know her, and she knew her family well enough to know that they were likelier to welcome her with knives and rock salt than open arms. And she couldn't blame them. But after so many months without a friendly face, without a familiar pair of arms to hold her in her exhaustion, it was just going to hurt. She had to prepare herself for that. She was just so tired. She wished that going home would bring her a little bit of rest, but it would only be harder, because she knew it would take more than a couple of rumors of a stubborn girl with a magic gun to convince any of those paranoid boys to trust her.

She followed a wrongness in the air to the place she needed to be. The air here had always smelled crisp and fresh, felt so good in her lungs, but there was something else in it now: a faint, acrid scent of industry, a bitter metallic tang that assaulted her senses with how out of place it was, how _wrong_ it was.

That would be the work camp. She'd seen and smelled enough of them to know. Hopefully South Dakota wasn't on the top of the Master's priority list, so the camp here wouldn't likely be as well-guarded and closely-surveilled as other camps she'd been to. Tokyo, for instance. Moscow and St. Petersburg, definitely. She could tell already that it was a smaller camp than she'd been to before. That acrid scent wasn't as heavy in the air here as it had been in Japan and in Russia, but she had no problem recognizing it: she knew it by now. She knew it by heart.

She stayed low, keeping close to trees in case she heard that low buzzing sound that she knew equally well, that sound that meant that the Toclaphane were near. The smell was easy to follow, and eventually, she could make out the noses of rockets above the canopy.

She crouched at the edge of the clearing that had been hastily made—jagged stumps of the trees that were felled to make way for the Master's camp still visible where they hadn't been strictly necessary to remove—and saw the camp ahead of her. Her breath hitched in her throat a little bit.

There were people she knew in London who were in the work camps there, she was aware of that. But somehow this was worse. The thought that one of the boys was here, that Bobby was here, was unbearable. She needed them to be all right.

It was just that she knew they weren't.

If the Master had a camp in Sioux Falls, it was because he had some inkling of the Doctor's connection to the Winchesters. Maybe (hopefully) he didn't quite know what that connection was, but there was no way that he had a base in South Dakota without having made sure that he was neutralizing whatever allies the Doctor had here. It was just a matter of who he knew was here, and who he knew was connected to the Doctor.

Which meant that Sam was in the most danger. The Doctor said he'd known very early on in their association that something was different about Sam, so there could be signs that would tell the Master, too, that Sam was different.

She made note of the security cameras, and quickly calculated a path wherein none of them would catch her. She moved carefully, cautiously, her eyes darting around, watching for the poor UNIT soldiers who were forced to serve as security. She didn't see anyone, and made her way slowly to the fence.

She crouched by it, and made a low noise, a hissing sort of sound, and a woman who had been hovering by the fence turned around.

Martha's eyes widened.

"What the hell?" the woman hissed back, glancing around for soldiers. She crouched by the fence next to Martha, keeping an anxious eye on the camp. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Martha swallowed hard past the curses that rose in her throat. Of course, of all the people whose safety could be confirmed to her so quickly, it would be _Ruby_. Ruby, who didn't know her any better than the Winchesters would at this point; Ruby, who had no reason to know why Martha would hate her. Ruby, who probably would have better information than anybody else about what Martha needed to know.

"I'm looking for someone who ought to be in this camp," Martha said. "This is extremely important. I need to find him."

"Who are you?" Ruby asked, her voice sharp. "Other than an idiot."

Martha gritted her teeth. "Martha Jones," she said, and barreled through past Ruby's widening eyes and the questions that budded on the woman's (_demon's_) lips. "Listen to me. I'm looking for Sam Winchester. Is he here? Have you seen him?"

Ruby grew still, and Martha's heart sank. "Not since yesterday," Ruby replied quietly. "He never came back from his station yesterday. There are rumors that he was transferred."

Martha sat back a little, letting the fence take some of her weight. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, and decided firmly that she was not going to cry. _Transferred_. Transferred usually meant killed, but she knew better in this case. The Master wouldn't kill Sam. He could use Sam.

After all, the new Time Lord Empire needed as many Time Lords as possible, and the Master would take what he could get.

"Are you really Martha Jones?" Ruby asked, and Martha was startled at the quiet hope in her voice. She watched the demon for a moment, studying her dark eyes and unhealthily pale face. Ruby was frightened, and now she was alone.

The Doctor would be kind to her, if he were here. Despite what she'd done.

(_The Doctor doesn't know what she's done_, a nasty part of Martha's mind hissed. _Sam wouldn't let you tell him. If he knew he'd kill her._)

Martha knew that wasn't true. But she thought it anyway.

But the fact was that Ruby was crouched in front of her, wanting to believe in the story of Martha, her eyes begging for an ounce of hope in a world slowly but surely going to hell (and Ruby should know), and Martha just couldn't deny anybody hope in these times.

"Yeah," she said, and Ruby exhaled. "Yeah. I'm really Martha."

"Have you found the gun?" Ruby asked.

Martha forced herself to smile. "I'm working on it. I know where the pieces are. I've got two."

Ruby smiled back, and the look of vulnerability on her face was so foreign to Martha, so odd to see on that face that she hated so much. But she didn't have time to dwell on it, so she leaned in a little closer, and Ruby leaned in to meet her.

"I need a favor from you," she said softly, and Ruby nodded. The gesture was almost eager. "I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to spread the story."

"A story?" Ruby echoed doubtfully, but quieted at the look on Martha's face, a look that betrayed just a little of her true feelings for Ruby. "I'm listening."

"I've traveled across the world," Martha began, as she always did, and Ruby was rapt. "From the ruins of Jakarta to the fusion mills of China. And everywhere I went, I saw people just like you, living as slaves. But if Martha Jones became a legend, then that's wrong, because my name isn't important. There's someone else. The man who sent me out there. The man who told me to walk the Earth. His name is the Doctor."

"The Doctor," Ruby interrupted, looking aghast. Martha stopped, unused to being cut off, and frowned.

"Yes, the Doctor," Martha said, "and don't ask _Doctor who?_, he's just the Doctor."

"I know," Ruby said. "I know the Doctor. You're working for _him_?"

"Is that a problem?" Martha asked, a bit testily. "Because by all means, if you want to be left out of the world-saving bit, I'll pass on the message."

"No," Ruby said quickly, and a little too loudly, and she glanced around herself. "No, I'm sorry."

Martha pressed her lips together, taking a moment to compose herself, taking a moment to push aside all her questions about how Ruby knew the Doctor. Because she said she _knew_ the Doctor, not she knew _of_ the Doctor. Of course Ruby would know _of_ the Doctor; all demons knew about the Doctor. There wasn't a demon in existence who didn't know about the Time Lords who'd destroyed their home world, and the Doctor, who'd destroyed the Time Lords. It made sense that Ruby would have heard stories of him.

_Know_ him? That was a different story.

"Now listen," Martha said, "if you know the Doctor then you can probably guess what I'm going to say. You probably know what he's done for this planet, for all of us." _Not you or your kind, but the rest of us_, Martha didn't say. "He's never asked for thanks, never stopped to tell us he's saved us again. And we need him now."

"Yeah, we do, so where the hell is he?" Ruby snapped, and Martha stared at her. "Sam waited for him. Sam's still waiting for him, if Saxon didn't have him killed. He never stopped believing the Doctor was going to come save him. Where is your precious Doctor? Why hasn't he stopped this yet?"

Martha tried to keep her temper. She did. She fought against the heat rising in her face but ultimately she couldn't, she was too tired and too angry and too frightened and too full of hate for the sneering face of the demon in front of her, and she laced her fingers through the chains of the fence and got right up in Ruby's face and hissed, "He's doing everything he can, you ungrateful creature. He's keeping _Saxon_ occupied. He's submitting himself to torture you can hardly imagine to keep Saxon from turning any more of his attention on _you_. And you're going to ask me where he is? He's orchestrating the _only_ rescue effort the human race can count on. Because the rest of the universe? They've given up on us. We're cordoned off, nobody in or out, waiting for the extinction of this planet. So if the Doctor's plan—because this _is_ the Doctor's plan—if it fails, that's it. We're done. The human race, totally obliterated."

So maybe she put a little too much emphasis on the words _human race_; she thought she could be forgiven for indulging in pettiness, just a bit. She was in the middle of saving the world, after all.

Ruby took in a breath to reply, but Martha wasn't quite done yet. "And don't you _dare_ suggest that Sam should have stopped believing in the Doctor. The Doctor _is_ coming to save him. The Doctor will _always_ save Sam Winchester." Martha inhaled, a bit raggedly, and said, "Always."

The fact that Ruby couldn't know that it was a threat didn't make it any less of one. But there must have been something in Martha's tone or in her face that gave Ruby pause, because the demon only said, "What do you need me to do?"

Martha released her hold on the fence, and said, "I need you to tell everyone about the Doctor. Everyone you can find. Tell them to pass on the word. You know who he is; tell them a story. About the man with the blue box who's saved them more times than they can imagine. And when the time comes, you all need to think about him. To believe in him."

"When the time comes?" Ruby echoed. "What does that mean?"

Martha stood. "You'll know," she said. "I promise."

She took a step to go, and Ruby said, "Where are you going?"

Martha didn't turn back, but a bitter grimace that was almost a smile crept onto her face. "I couldn't stop him from taking Sam," she said. "It's not a mistake I'll make twice."

She stumbled a step as she walked away, leaving Ruby and any further questions she had in her wake.

She didn't trust Ruby. She barely trusted Ruby far enough to have any kind of confidence that the demon would tell the story she needed to tell. But this year was changing everyone, and there was little of the brash, manipulative, spiteful Ruby she knew from before left. (Or rather, that Ruby hadn't been created.) This Ruby was small and scared, and a little broken. Maybe this Ruby was frightened enough to put some faith in the Doctor.

She hadn't seen hide nor hair of a demon since she started traveling until Ruby. Maybe they'd decided that Hell was better than here, and Martha wouldn't blame them. Hell was at least protected from the Master; using the TARDIS as a paradox machine, he couldn't use it to travel, so Hell wouldn't be affected by his dominion. They'd have to content themselves with the souls they'd already stolen, but it was better than letting their hosts be subjected to the mercies of the Toclaphane. Because the Toclaphane could get a few good hits in before the demons could escape back to Hell, Martha knew.

So that was one plus.

She squinted up at the sun, judging the time and her direction. She knew her coordinates, at least roughly, and she knew that she needed to walk north to get to Singer Salvage. So she started walking.

She only stumbled one more time, gritted her teeth, and did _not_ look at her ankle. Looking at it would make it worse. Martha knew that. She'd deal with it later.

She trudged north, rehearsing what exactly she'd say to the barrel of Bobby's shotgun (or to Dean's shotgun, or to Castiel's outstretched ready-to-smite hand). _Hi, I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm Martha Jones, the girl everybody says is going to save the world. Can I crash at your place?_

Maybe _Hi, I know you haven't seen him in half a year and that the last time you saw him things didn't go exactly swimmingly and that he couldn't stop you from going to Hell, Dean—good to see you by the way—but the Doctor sent me to tell you a story so could you not shoot me please?_

Or maybe just _don't shoot me, please_ would be the best place to start.

That awful industrial scent finally stopped assaulting her senses, and she breathed deep, closing her eyes for just a moment. It wouldn't do to stop being vigilant, but for just a fraction of a second she allowed herself to pretend that she was just going to Bobby's after some adventure, Dean and Sam behind her, calling each other names in adrenaline-fueled good cheer, the Doctor striding ahead of her with his hands stuffed in his pockets, babbling about how that particular type of tree is related to another kind found on a planet in the constellation of Orion, only its leaves turn opalescent in the fall.

_Bitch._

_Jerk._

_You know, Martha, it really is a marvelous sight, I ought to take you and the boys there after we take a breather, I think all three of you would really enjoy it, but especially you and Samuel, of course, do you think you three'd be up to another trip so soon? If not we can always..._

She had to stop. She couldn't let herself be sucked into the comfort and softness that a dream like that would bring her; this was no time to lose focus. Not now. She had to hold on to reality, at least for a little bit longer.

If Bobby or Dean didn't shoot her, she could close her eyes then, for a moment. She promised herself.

So she blinked memory and sweat out of her eyes. It was hotter than she thought it would be, this time of year. What month was it? September. It was September. She really felt like it shouldn't be this hot.

She was pondering weather patterns in early fall in South Dakota when she heard it.

A buzzing filled her ears, coming from ahead of her, and she ducked quickly behind a tree, gripping the TARDIS key on a chain around her neck with trembling fingers. She closed her eyes tight, but then opened them wide.

A sound. A sound that was not the buzzing of the Toclaphane, but the snap of a twig.

There shouldn't be anyone out here but her, so there were only three people it could possibly be.

She knew which one it was.

She peered around the tree, ahead and to her right, and her fears were confirmed. Dean Winchester was walking towards her, but worse, towards the Toclaphane.

He wouldn't know about them. Or at least, he wouldn't know _enough_ about them to know to be afraid.

Or, she thought sardonically, he would know enough to be afraid, and would just stubbornly refuse to be afraid anyway. Any of the three was likely.

So she gripped the TARDIS key so tight that it hurt, and ran towards Dean.

He saw her as she neared, and his eyes widened. He raised a pistol, but she got to him before he could make any threats, pressing herself against him and knocking him back against a tree. He gave a grunt, and she slapped a hand over his mouth. Luckily he was surprised enough that she was able to catch him off-balance, and she drew him down the trunk.

"Be quiet," she whispered, kneeling over him. He stared at her in disbelief. "Be absolutely quiet, and get as far underneath me as you can."

His mouth moved under her hand, and she could just barely make out his words: "Usually you have to take me to dinner, first."

She forced herself not to smile. _Not the time, Martha,_ she thought, and schooled her features into a stern expression. "If you want to survive," she breathed, "do as I say. _Please_."

Dean looked conflicted for a moment, but maybe he figured that if things got violent he could take her. Something convinced him, and ultimately Martha didn't care what, because he curled up a little and let Martha cover him.

The buzzing got a little louder, and Martha felt Dean freeze. She did, too. The TARDIS key bit into her palm.

She felt the shadow of the Toclaphane over her, and she held her breath. Not now. Please. Don't let this be the time that the key fails, the time that the Toclaphane can see her. Let the TARDIS protect Dean, too, like it had protected her over the months.

After an unbearable five seconds, she felt the shadow lift over her, and the sun return to beat down upon her.

She let another ten seconds pass before sliding off of Dean, falling on all fours and forcing her breath to return to normal. Dean sat up against the tree, and she could feel him staring at her.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, and Martha Jones ignored the pain in her heart that the question caused.

"I'm Martha Jones," she said. "And I'm here to help."

"Right," Dean said, and Martha restrained a sigh. Some things never changed. "Here to help."

"I'll explain everything," Martha insisted. "But we need to get somewhere safe. We need to get to Bobby's."

She bit her lip as Dean's eyes widened, then narrowed. Oh, hell. "How do you know about Bobby?" Dean ground out.

"It's...complicated," Martha said hesitantly. Dean's hand was covering the pistol that had fallen to the ground, and Martha tensed. "Just listen to me. I'm with the Doctor. All right? I'm the Doctor's Companion."

"The Doctor," Dean echoed in surprise. "You're with the _Doctor_?"

"Yes," Martha said eagerly, _"_I'm Martha Jones. Bring me to Bobby's; he'll know about me, I swear. And if he doesn't, you can, I don't know, shoot me or whatever it is you want to do. All right? Can you do that? I'm not armed. I'll go with you."

Dean thought about it for a second, his green eyes studying her, looking for some hint of malice or deceit. Finding none, he stood, and grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her up with him. She bit back a whimper, almost successfully, when her weight was put back on her ankle. Dean's harsh expression flickered for a moment into concern, and it was so close to _right_ that Martha relaxed for that moment into his grip. The concern then changed to confusion.

"You hurt?" he asked shortly.

Martha shook her head, paused, and nodded. "Just a sprained ankle," she said, settling her weight on her good foot instead of Dean's arms. "I'll be fine. I can keep up."

"Good," Dean said, "because I'm not waiting around for you." He took off into the woods, and Martha followed him with a breathy sigh.

Home sweet home.


	5. Chapter Four: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I had some unexpected weekend guests and wasn't able to write. This chapter is a little longer than normal to make up for it! Here we backtrack a little bit to explain what Dean's doing when Martha finds him. Thanks so much to everybody for the wonderful reviews! I love hearing your thoughts, and I hope everybody continues to enjoy the story!

* * *

Dean was beginning to wonder whether or not he was really out of Hell, and that seemed to confuse Castiel.

"I assure you," he said, a slight frown on his face, eyeing Dean's third bottle of beer with a certain amount of distaste, "you are on Earth, Dean. Why do you doubt?"

Dean took a swig of said third beer before replying, and decided that he wasn't going to deal with how Castiel knew he was thinking that. "Because this is too perfectly screwed up to be what I really came back to," he said. "I get back home, my brother's gone missing, there's a damn slave labor camp twenty miles away from Bobby's and _England_ took over the world? In _four months_?"

Castiel didn't reply, but kept watching him with that same vaguely puzzled cautiousness. He'd remained very quiet through Bobby's explanation of what had happened...of Harold Saxon's sudden and inexorable rise to power, of the assassination of the American president, of the reign of terror of the Spheres, of the rise of the labor camps and the totalitarian crackdown of every country in the world under Saxon's hand. He'd asked for clarification once or twice, but otherwise just sat there, seeming to be trying to piece everything together in his mind. It was only after Bobby was done that Castiel seemed to focus back on Dean, slightly concerned by his muted, aching reaction to the story. Bobby sighed. "Son, you need to calm down."

"Like hell I need to calm down!" Dean shouted, then bit off the rest of whatever he was going to say, suppressing a wince at his choice of words. He passed a hand over his face, then took his beer between both hands, letting the chill of it sink into his skin. "So you don't know for sure if Sammy's in the camp."

"No," Bobby admitted. "It's just where he's likely to be. They've been taking almost all the healthy young people and putting 'em in the labor camps. Nine times outta ten, missing person these days, that's the answer. Labor camp."

Dean lowered the bottle from his lips where he'd raised it and stilled, his eyes not moving from Bobby. He felt his chest constrict with what Sam used to call his spidey-sense when they were kids, that knowledge that something was wrong, that a grown-up was lying to them or comforting them with false reassurances. That feeling he got when his dad said _It's nothing, Dean, go to bed_. "Nine times outta ten," Dean echoed, and Bobby furrowed his brow. "Huh. What's the one time outta ten, Bobby?"

Bobby took his beer off of the table and took a long pull on it. That was insufficient, and Dean leaned towards him, elbows on the table and just barely reining in his anger. "Dammit, Bobby, what are you not telling me? Where could Sammy be?"

Bobby put the beer down and rested his head in his hands. Dean tried not to panic. "'Bout...three months ago, or so," Bobby said slowly, "Saxon set his Spheres loose. The ones you and Castiel almost ran into outside. There ain't no fighting them, Dean, ain't nothing you can do. He sent 'em down with..." Bobby made a visible effort to compose himself, and he said, a little more quietly, "He sent 'em down with orders to kill a tenth of the population of the Earth. And they did."

Dean couldn't react. It was like his brain had been shut off, like everything in him that was capable of feeling, of thinking, was just simply not responding because it couldn't, because if Sammy was gone then what was there left to feel for?

"Ten percent," he whispered, and Bobby reached out and grabbed his wrist, hard enough to hurt but Dean didn't try to pull away. "A one in ten chance. And you haven't heard from him since then?"

Bobby shook his head. "I'm sorry, son. But it doesn't mean he's gone. If he was in a labor camp he wouldn't be able to get in touch with me either."

Dean felt a sensation in his chest that he was really, really afraid was going to come out as grief any minute now. Sammy couldn't be dead. He didn't know Sammy was dead, not for sure. But if he was...

If he was dead, Dean had just spent forty years in Hell, had suffered all of the torments that Alastair could come up with and he was a _creative_ bastard, had turned into something he hated, all for nothing. If Sammy was dead, it didn't mean anything at all.

"Sam is not dead."

Dean looked up sharply to see Castiel standing placidly behind him, as though his announcement was nothing strange or particularly important. The certainty in his voice was absolute. "How do you know?" Bobby demanded.

"I would know if Sam were dead," Castiel replied, his voice even, unperturbed by the accusation in Bobby's tone, the _don't you give us hope if you're not sure_ behind his words. "And he is not. Therefore, I would assume that he is in one of the labor camps you spoke of."

Dean marveled as he felt the tightness in his chest loosen, as he felt the pain that had started to constrict his throat leave. He took in a breath that was perhaps more of a gasp than he'd prefer, but it didn't matter, it didn't matter a damn _bit_ because Sam was alive. Castiel promised Sam was alive. And he believed Castiel. "Okay," he breathed, and felt Bobby's and Castiel's eyes on him. "Okay. I can work with that."

A moment passed where Dean could almost _feel_ Bobby and Castiel trying to figure out what he meant by that, and Dean stood, working out the stiffness in his shoulders. He decided to save the others the trouble of their puzzling, and said, "I'm gonna find Sammy."

Bobby bolted up after him, grabbing him by the arm (_oh, his left arm, yes there was something on that arm, he'd almost forgotten_) and spinning him around. The old man looked furious and terrified with an overlay of that old familiar exasperation that usually accompanied Dean or Sam being called an _idjit_. "I don't think you quite understand, son," Bobby said, his voice low. "You don't just go _find_ people, not anymore. You think if it was that easy, I wouldn't have done it by now? You think I don't care about Sam? You were _dead_, Dean. Your brother was all I had left in the world." Bobby scowled, and Dean could see the emotion he was holding back in his eyes. "If I could have, I would've found him."

"I'm not trying to—" Dean began, but Bobby wasn't done.

"Sam's been gone three months," he said. "Your angel pal here says he ain't dead, I believe him. But he hasn't come back. You're here, and I ain't losing you now." He grabbed Dean's face in his free hand, and Dean didn't stop him. Bobby visibly fought against tears as he repeated, "I ain't losing you, too."

Bobby's hands moved to his collar, gripping it, evidently torn between throttling him and pulling him in to embrace him. The battle went on in the older Hunter, and Dean just said, "Okay. Okay, Bobby. I won't do anything stupid."

Bobby laughed, tightening his grip on Dean's collar before releasing it, and him, with a small shove. "I'll believe _that_ when I see it," he retorted, and Dean grinned back.

"Have some faith, man," Dean said. "We've got an angel in the room."

That seemed to snap Bobby out of his emotional state, and he passed a hand over his eyes. "Let's get some food in you," he said, heading back into the kitchen.

Dean waited for a moment, then started to follow him back in when Castiel's quiet voice stopped him. "Bobby...he is your friend."

Dean turned to the angel, who had a contemplative expression on his face, like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, Bobby's...he's pretty much my dad. Closest thing I got, anymore."

Castiel's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Then why do you deceive him?" he asked, and Dean froze.

"What—" Dean began.

"You did not say it outright, perhaps, but you implied that you would not seek out your brother," Castiel clarified, ignoring Dean's stammering. "That is a lie. You intend to do precisely that, as soon as you feel that you can without alerting him. As soon as this afternoon, if you are able. That is deceit. This is how you would treat your father?"

Dean tried a few words, but nothing passed his lips. Finally he lowered his head and exhaled slowly, trying to figure out how to explain justifiable falsehoods to an angel of the Lord. "Bobby wouldn't get it," he said, very softly, though he had no doubt that Castiel could hear. He wondered, really, if he even had to say it out loud for Castiel to hear it. "Yeah, maybe he tried everything _he_ could, but Sammy's my _brother_. It's different. I'll be able to find him, Cas-Castiel, I know I will. If he's there to find, I'll find him."

When he looked up, Castiel was studying him. He felt uncomfortable, vulnerable under the angel's gaze, but couldn't find it in him to move or say anything. Castiel raised him out of the Pit, for God's sake. He could take a look at what he'd brought back if he felt like it. "Your brother is the reason you made your deal," he said slowly. It wasn't really a question, but Dean nodded nonetheless. "There is nothing anyone could say to you to make you reconsider this path."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "I sold my soul for the kid. Nobody could talk me out of that, nobody can talk me out of a hike to find him."

Castiel took another moment with the staring, and Dean was starting to feel pretty weird about it, but then the angel simply nodded and said, "Loyalty to family is commendable. However, your friend knows more about the world as it is now than you do. Perhaps—"

"Perhaps nothing," Dean hissed, stepping closer to Castiel, who watched him impassively. "I'm gonna find my brother, and I'm gonna bring him back here, safe. Because that's what I went to Hell for—my brother, _safe_. Forty years, man. Forty _years_. It's not gonna be for nothing. I'm gonna get Sammy back."

Suddenly Dean was fully aware of how close he was to the angel, and he lowered his eyes and stepped back. Castiel didn't seem angry, didn't seem upset or really any emotion at all, but Dean was already starting to realize that determining emotions in the angel was going to take some pretty precise readings of _how much_ and _in what way_ his eyes were narrowed, and that was going to take more than twenty minutes to get the hang of. So he figured backing off was the safer move, for now. It was almost apologetically that he murmured, "I just...I gotta get Sammy back, Cas. Please. Don't stop me."

Again with the nickname, but Castiel didn't react to it. He simply continued to look at Dean as though searching for the answer to some silent question when Bobby called out from the other room, "You think you went to Hell, now you're too good to help in the kitchen? Get in here and chop a vegetable, boy, I'm an old man."

Dean spent the day pretending for Bobby, pretending to be okay, pretending not to be planning, pretending to just be _curious_ about where the labor camp was, not that he was going to go to find Sam or anything, just making conversation. He spent the day hoping Castiel didn't out him, intentionally or through his ignorance of human social behaviors. He ate lunch, went outside to help Bobby tend to his pitiful little vegetable garden ("Desperate times call for desperate measures, son," Bobby had said, and Dean couldn't think of times desperate enough to eat practically nothing but vegetables but evidently he'd learn, according to Bobby), worked on the Impala, and then announced that he needed to take a nap.

Bobby nodded, seeming pleased that at least Dean would be unconscious for a while and he wouldn't have to worry so much about him. "You've had a big day," he said solemnly, and chuckled when Dean pulled a sour face at his condescending tone. "Get some sleep, son. I'll wake you before dinner."

Dean went to the bedroom, closed and locked the door, and promptly walked up to the window and opened it.

A rustling behind him stopped him, and his shoulders slumped. Busted.

He didn't have to turn around to know that Castiel was looking at him with disapproval as he said, "Bobby told you it was too dangerous to set out to find your brother."

"All due respect, Bobby's not Sam's brother," Dean retorted, turning around and oh, sure enough, there was that disapproving look. "I am. And it's my job to protect him."

Well, that must have been _especially_ irritating or confusing or something, because he got a head-tilt along with narrowed eyes, and Castiel said, "This morning you returned from Hell, where you sent yourself to protect your brother."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Not exactly gonna let all that hard work go to waste."

"Do you think you owe your brother more?" Castiel asked, and he sounded genuinely curious, like he was trying to figure out the weights and balances of the debts Dean and Sam owed each other. It blew Dean away.

"No, it's not like that," he said, a little more heatedly than he thought he was going to sound. "I don't _owe_ Sam anything. It's not about _owing_. It's about..." Dean broke off, unable to articulate it, settling finally on, "It's...he's my brother. I'm responsible for him. I always have been." He met the angel's eyes, and, with as much strength as he could muster, asked, "Are you gonna try to stop me?"

He could have sworn he saw the faintest glint of amusement in the angel's eyes, as Castiel said, "If I were to stop you, it would not be a matter of _trying_. But I do not feel that I should discourage you from this fraternal devotion. It is encouraged in us; I cannot imagine that my Father would discourage it in you."

Dean tried to process that for a second, his eyes darting behind Castiel in a physical manifestation of his thoughts, before giving up. "Sure," he said, and added, "Thanks, Cas. By the way...don't tell Bobby, okay? He'll just worry."

Castiel didn't look pleased by that, and Dean felt a residual shiver of...not fear, just, maybe, intimidation. He was very still until Castiel said, "If he asks me, I will not lie to him, Dean."

Dean slumped a little. He should have guessed. How stupid was it to ask an angel to lie for you? "Could you just...not be around him, for a little while? Just long enough to give me a head start in case he comes after me."

Castiel considered that for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "I can avoid him," he said. Dean flashed an appreciative grin and started out the window, only to be startled by Castiel's hand around his arm. He turned to the angel, wide-eyed. "But I will tell you this, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, and his voice was low. "I did not raise you from Perdition only to have you throw your life away. If you find danger, pray. I will hear. And if you take unnecessary risks, I will know."

There was nothing that could be but a threat, so Dean nodded earnestly. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, sure. No unnecessary risks. Pray if things get hairy. I got it."

Castiel's expression was doubtful, but he released Dean's arm and allowed the Hunter to crawl out the window, watching him as he took off through the salvage yard.

Bobby had said that the labor camp was south, so south is where Dean headed. The land was familiar and comforting, but at the same time, a prickle in his spine told him something was wrong. Something had gone really, really wrong.

Castiel told him that he wasn't in Hell anymore, and he felt like he had to trust the angel with that. Alastair had pulled some pretty devious torments, and he'd been fooled once or twice, but this didn't feel like that. If he was going to torture Dean with the delusion that he was home, why would he do it like this? Why have the whole world go to crap but promise that Sam was alive?

If this were Alastair, he'd know that the world could go to hell for all Dean cared, as long as Sammy was okay. Because after forty years, Alastair knew Dean.

He'd probably gone about five miles when out of the corner of his eye he saw movement.

He pulled his pistol up and cocked it, but couldn't quite get over the surprise of seeing the pretty young woman coming at him before she was on top of him, slamming him against a tree trunk and covering his mouth with her hand before dragging them both to the ground.

"Be quiet," she whispered, her voice panicky. "Be absolutely quiet, and get as far underneath me as you can."

Dean did some quick observations and calculations in his head. She looked to be a few years younger than him; maybe younger than Sam, too. She couldn't weigh much more than a buck fifteen, and she had barely come up to his chin when they were both standing. So he felt pretty safe throwing out a one-liner instead of trying too hard to get up. "Usually you have to take me to dinner, first."

He was pretty sure her lips quirked up, but she ended up scowling at him as she hissed, "If you want to survive, do as I say. _Please_."

She sounded desperate, and she sounded scared, and he was pretty sure she wasn't armed. And something cold was settling in his stomach, so he figured that this wasn't the time to argue, and he curled up beneath her. She breathed a small sigh of relief and laid over him.

When he heard the buzzing, he knew he'd made the right call.

He didn't know _why_ this girl thought that she could protect him from the Sphere, but she seemed pretty sure of herself, so he went absolutely still and felt her do the same. His racing heart was the most movement he accomplished, and that was only because he was holding his breath rather than breathing evenly to calm himself. He felt her heart racing, too.

The Sphere hovered above them for an agonizing moment, and then, miraculously, went on its way. The girl didn't move for a little while, then rolled off of him onto her hands and knees, panting.

Dean sat up, leaning against the trunk of the tree she'd pushed him against and squinting in the direction the Sphere had gone. Why would it ignore her? If the Spheres were controlled by Saxon, the man who had enslaved Sammy, and the Spheres didn't touch this girl, what did that mean?

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, and she turned to him. There was something inexpressibly sad in her expression, and he _really_ hoped it wasn't guilt.

"I'm Martha Jones. And I'm here to help," she said softly.

"Right," Dean scoffed. "Here to help." He'd heard that line before.

"I'll explain everything," Martha said. "But we need to get somewhere safe. We need to get to Bobby's."

Dean startled, then narrowed his eyes. This day just didn't stop getting weirder. "How do you know about Bobby?"

"It's...complicated," Martha said hesitantly. Dean reached out for his gun and saw her tense, and for just a moment felt a little bit of regret. Maybe she wasn't his enemy, but he couldn't trust that, not yet. "Just listen to me. I'm with the Doctor. All right? I'm the Doctor's Companion."

Dean sat up straighter at that, tucking the gun into his jeans. Where _was_ the Doctor? Whole world goes to hell, Sammy gets kidnapped, and where is that alien son of a bitch? Too busy making useless house calls to damned souls to bother saving his so-called favorite planet? "The Doctor. You're with the Doctor?"

"Yes," Martha said, and she _must _have misinterpreted his tone because she sounded like she was grasping at a thread of hope. "I'm Martha Jones. Bring me to Bobby's; he'll know about me, I swear. And if he doesn't, you can, I don't know, shoot me or whatever it is you want to do. All right? Can you do that? I'm not armed. I'll go with you."

He eyed her suspiciously, but she seemed genuine. Genuine, and frightened, but not of him. All he felt from her towards him was desperate hope that he'd believe her. Her eyes begged him to believe her, and so he stood, taking her by the elbow and helping her to her feet.

She let out a whimper when she got on her feet, and he saw that she was favoring one of her legs. Sprained ankle, maybe, or a broken toe, and while he was figuring it out, he felt her lean more heavily on him. It was a gesture of trust that he found extremely odd coming from a woman who obviously knew that these times were dangerous ones...very odd to rely on a stranger like that. "You hurt?" he asked.

Martha shook her head at first, and he was about to give her the _don't lie to me_ look he always gave Sammy when he lied about an injury when she changed her mind and nodded. "Just a sprained ankle," she said, standing on her own. "I'll be fine. I can keep up."

"Good," Dean said, "because I'm not waiting around for you." He took off towards Bobby's, plans on getting to the labor camp postponed for now, and he heard her uneven gait behind him as she worked to keep up.

It went against everything in him to head back to Bobby's, but if she was really with the Doctor, she could know something that could help him get Sam back. And if he could get Sam back faster, it was worth a momentary delay.

Of course, the _last_ time Dean had seen the Doctor, he wasn't especially helpful. More along the lines of _don't worry, Dean, you'll get out some day_ and then going off without any advice or warnings or anything but useless, vague hope in his wake. Twenty years after that, he was walking back to Bobby's, but that twenty years...

He wondered if the Doctor knew how much worse it made it. The hope, every day, that he would be released. That somebody (that the Doctor) was going to save him. And as the years started to melt together into an endless song of pain and fear, how that hope drained away, how the Doctor's voice echoed through his head saying _time can be re-written_, how he eventually gave in because apparently time _had _been re-written to make it so that no one was coming for him.

He wondered if the Doctor knew that Alastair had found out about what happened during the visit (of course Alastair would find out, how would he not) and had used it against Dean. Coming to him as the Doctor, saying _Hullo __Dean, didn't I promise you'd see me again_ before ripping into him, those soulful brown eyes boring into Dean's as he said _I killed my whole race, Dean, down to the last child, why would you think I'd treat you any different, why would you think you're special?_

An awful part of him hoped that the Doctor did know, and that it _ate_ at him.

He was so filled with these thoughts that in retrospect he was pretty sure Martha had already said it twice before he heard it when she asked, "Were you going to look for Sam?"

Dean whirled around and she stopped short, startled, with a pained expression on her face and a little hop to take her weight off of her injured foot. "What did you say?" he said, his voice low.

Martha looked alarmed as she said, "I asked...if you were looking for Sam."

"How the hell do you know about my brother?" Dean demanded.

Again that hurt look flashed across Martha's face, and she said, "I told you, I'm with the Doctor."

Dean considered grilling her further, but they were almost at Bobby's, and he figured that maybe Castiel could do a better job of it than he could, anyway. So he said nothing else, but grabbed her by the elbow and half-dragged, half-supported her back to the salvage yard. Because as much as he didn't trust her, she was obviously in pain, and she was unarmed. It wasn't like she could hurt him. She accepted the help gratefully, as reluctantly as it was given, and again he was pretty sure that she was leaning into him a little more than strictly necessary to stay above the pain.

He heard her gasp softly as Bobby's house came into view, and when he looked at her, there was a sheen in her eyes. He frowned, but didn't say anything.

They got to the door just in time for Bobby to throw it open, a thunderous look on his face, with Castiel behind him looking _very_ mildly apologetic.

Bobby was about to say something, it was clear, when he saw Martha, and instead demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

"Martha Jones," she replied, her voice a choked whisper. "I'm Martha Jones."

It was when Bobby gaped and ushered her in, throwing her arm around his shoulders and helping her up the stairs like she was visiting royalty, that Dean realized that he had no idea what was going on.


	6. Chapter Five: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: This chapter's a little shorter, but things with Sam are progressing a little more quickly and Dean and Martha need time to catch up. Lots of Sam angst ahead, be warned, but also the return of an old friend!

* * *

_Thump thump._

_Thump thump._

_Thump thump._

Sam woke to the sound of his own heart beating.

_Thump thump._

_Thump thump._

_Thump thump._

It was loud in his ears. He tried to open his eyes but found that he couldn't, that he was for some reason exhausted. He ached everywhere.

His eyes flew open, though, when he heard the scream.

He couldn't make out much, just a fog with indistinct human shapes, but it didn't stop his heart from racing (_thump thump thump thump_) and his eyes from darting around, panicked. He was about to call out when the scream turned into laughter, and he heard a male voice, made husky by pain, challenge, "That the best you got? I've walked off worse than that and they didn't even have to tie me up for it. Not that I'm complaining about the tied up bit, just usually I'm the one doing the tying, but I'm open to experimentation."

A sickening _crunch_ accompanied a grunt of pain, and a different male voice muttered something incomprehensible but threatening. The laughter returned, sounding a bit more strained this time, and the first voice exclaimed, "Don't make promises you can't live up to, handsome."

There was a wet sound that Sam knew from experience was someone getting stabbed, and apart from a rattling noise there was no more sound.

Just the _thump thump thump_ of his heart, getting louder and louder until he succumbed again to unconsciousness.

When he woke up, it was, impossibly, to the sound of the first voice he'd heard upon waking before. It sounded weary, and though it was obviously aiming for boisterous it missed by a mile. "Tish! My top girl. What do we have today? Ooh, mush! My favorite."

This time Sam forced his eyes open, and blinked hard past the fog. Shapes formed in his vision again, setting a scene ahead of him: the back of a man, shackled to two tall posts, and a woman, setting down a tray and feeding him. He blinked again, and his vision began to clear.

The man was tall, perhaps a little smaller than Dean, and had the look of a man accustomed to hard work but who was wasting away. He was putting up a brave front, but Sam knew all too well the way pain warped a body. The set of the man's shoulders and the way his fingers worked rhythmically told him everything he needed to know. The young woman, pretty and solemn, spoon-fed him silently.

Sam blinked again. He knew the man. He knew he did. From...somewhere. Everything was still so foggy but he knew him from somewhere.

The woman put the spoon into the now-empty bowl and straightened, lingering for a moment in front of the man. Sam could barely make it out as she mouthed, _Are you all right, Jack?_

The man nodded. "Another exquisite meal," he said out loud. "Give my compliments to the chef, sweet heart."

She smiled tightly and walked out of the room without a single glance at Sam, but that was okay, because Sam was trying really hard to think past the fog.

Jack.

He knew a Jack. Somebody important, somebody from a long time ago. Jack.

_Oh my god._

"Jack?" he croaked, his throat raw and dry. "Jack, is that you?"

Jack turned his head, but couldn't quite turn it far enough to see Sam behind him. "Depends on who's asking," he said lightly. Sam crept forward, realizing suddenly that he, too, was chained, although not as tightly. He had a manacle on his left wrist, connected by a chain to the wall, but otherwise he was free. Maybe their captor (_Saxon_, his mind provided, _don't fool yourself_) didn't think that Sam posed quite the flight risk that Jack posed. When he made his way into Jack's field of vision, the captain's eyebrows lifted and he studied Sam appraisingly for a moment, then broke into a dazzling grin.

The same dazzling grin he'd taught Dean in the hospital room, all those years ago.

"Well, if it's you asking, then absolutely I'm Jack," he said. "And who might you be?"

Sam frowned.

Then his eyes widened, and he made a few unsuccessful attempts at words before finally stammering, "Jack, it's me, it's _Sam_."

Jack's brow furrowed. "Sam. You're gonna have to help me out more than that, friend, I apologize, just there's been a couple of Sams..."

"Sam _Winchester_," Sam said quickly, not interested in knowing about the other Sams. "It's...Sammy. You and—and Dean both called me Sammy."

It was the first time he'd said his brother's name in over a month, and it hurt worse than any of the myriad injuries he seemed to have sustained.

Jack looked taken aback, then flustered. "_Sammy_?" he exclaimed, then looked around quickly, nervously, and lowered his voice. "Sam Winchester? How the hell long has it—okay, we're both going to pretend that I didn't say that, earlier."

Sam nodded his agreement. "It's been fourteen years," he said. "Since Hanging Rock."

Jack shook his head slowly. "Wow," he said. "You...got tall. And older."

"Yeah. You didn't," Sam remarked. He sat up a little straighter, and a wave of nausea overtook him. He clutched his stomach and steadied himself with his shackled hand. Jack watched him, saying nothing, with a sympathetic expression on his face.

"Just let it pass," Jack said as Sam pressed the back of his hand against his mouth in an effort to control the heaving that his body was begging for. "Relax, if you can. You're gonna be fine. It's vortex sickness; you jumped unshielded, and your body doesn't know what's going on. You'll be okay. Breathe."

Sam swallowed hard, then took in deep, gasping breaths to calm his stomach. When the waves of illness subsided, he looked up at Jack. "Vortex?" he managed.

"The time vortex," Jack replied. "They used a vortex manipulator to bring you here. Bastardized TARDIS tech, because they couldn't get mine, so it's not properly shielded. If it's any consolation, the guys who brought you here have been in the infirmary since you got here."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." Jack's words hit him, and he looked up a little too sharply, sending a wave of pain through his skull. He did his best to ignore it and said, "_TARDIS_ tech? What do you mean, TARDIS tech?"

Jack frowned. "I mean tech from the TARDIS," he said. "I know you know about the TARDIS, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam said, "but _you_ do, too?"

Jack's expression shifted into one of disbelief, and then amusement. "All this time, you never put it together?" he asked. "Our 'friend in common' that I told you and Dean about? The one who sent me to West Virginia? It was the Doctor, Sam. The Doctor sent me to protect you."

In retrospect, sure, it was obvious. But fourteen years separated the events, so he felt pretty justified in not having figured it out, and he just asked, "Is the Doctor _here_? Where is he? Is he okay?"

There was silence while Jack hesitated, and Sam began to be able to hear the _thump thump thump_ of his racing heart once more. Finally, Jack said, "He's here, Sam. He's alive."

Somehow, it wasn't as comforting as Sam was expecting it to be, hearing those words. He inhaled raggedly, and said, "Then why hasn't he stopped this yet?"

Jack lowered his eyes, and Sam's heart dropped. "He's a prisoner," Jack said dully, "like us."

Sam set his jaw against the flood of despair that threatened to overtake him, closing his eyes. He barely heard as Jack whispered, "I'm sorry, Sam," and really, he didn't care if Jack was sorry. That was it. If Saxon had managed to take the Doctor, there really was no hope.

"Does he have a _plan_?" Sam asked, his voice acid, already knowing the answer. He looked up with bitter eyes at Jack.

Who, impossibly, nodded. "Absolutely," he laughed. "Doesn't he always? It's Martha."

Sam stared at Jack, incredulous. "Martha _Jones_?" he exclaimed, and Jack nodded again. "Martha Jones, who escaped from London and is walking the world to build a gun that can kill Saxon? All of that is _true_?"

"Every word," Jack said. "She's gonna take this world back. She's gonna shoot the Master right through the hearts, and he won't be able to do a thing about it."

Cold.

Sam felt suddenly very cold, and he knew it wasn't shock, because if he was going to go into shock it would have already happened. But despite the sheen of sweat on his skin, despite the way Jack's hair hung limp and damp on his face, Sam felt so cold.

"Hearts," he echoed in a rough whisper.

Jack met his eyes, surprised. "You didn't know," he said, and when Sam didn't reply, he sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I would have broken it to you easier, if I'd known."

"The Doctor said he was the last of his kind," Sam said. "That everyone else had died in the Time War."

"He thought they had," Jack said. "He was as surprised as anyone. The Master was hidden, locked away where the Doctor couldn't find him. But he got a hold of the TARDIS."

"You can't kill a Time Lord," Sam said dully. "He'll just regenerate."

Jack said nothing.

"So Saxon got you, too," Sam continued, and Jack shrugged. "You and me and the Doctor. What about Rose?"

Jack flinched, and Sam frowned. "Where's Rose?" he asked again. "Jack?"

"Rose...she's alive, Sam, don't worry," Jack said quickly. "She's just...lost. To the Doctor. She's in another dimension, where he can't reach her. But she's safe. And really, now, it's a better place to be than this, so she got lucky, in a way."

Sam was silent, taking it in. Rose was gone, lost in another world, forever. He remembered the look on her face, those months ago in the woods, when the Doctor showed up to find her. That expression of utter trust and faith, and the way the Doctor had looked back at her, like there was no one more important in the world, like all he needed was her there to be with him and believe in him. How those looks were what kept him from really believing that the Doctor was malevolent.

Gone. It must have broken the Doctor.

"He was traveling with Martha." Jack's quiet voice interrupted Sam's thoughts. "For a little while, now. It's something you get used to, with the Doctor."

"New Companions?" Sam asked.

"Things happening out of order," Jack corrected. "You don't know Martha, right?" Sam shook his head. "Well, she knows you. She told me stories about the adventures you went on together."

Something that felt alarmingly like hope rose in Sam, and he said, "If she knows me...if we traveled together...then in the future, we meet, right? So we win this? The Doctor wins this. Right?"

But the crestfallen look on Jack's face was enough to tell Sam that no, that was not right. He exhaled slowly as Jack said, "That would be right. Usually. I mean, time can always be re-written, except for fixed points, but yeah, usually if a time traveler knows you but you don't know them you meet them later on in your timeline. But when the Master took the TARDIS, he turned it into a paradox machine. Time is unstable. This is a whole new timeline, and anything can happen. What happened before, for the Doctor and Martha...it doesn't mean anything here. Not necessarily."

Sam put his head in his hands, sitting cross-legged on the floor, while Jack watched him.  
"So we have a psycho Time Lord trying to destroy the planet," Sam said quietly, and Jack didn't reply. "Sounds a lot like what we were worried about when we met the Doctor. Only way we got out of that one was...it was the Doctor, so we were wrong about what it was he wanted. But I read the lore on him. The things they say about him, about Gallifrey, the things he said he did in the War...we're damn lucky he's on our side. But a bad one..." Sam trailed off, unable to find words for just how screwed they were.

"He's not the Doctor," Jack said, and Sam looked up at him. "The Master's not the Doctor, Sam. Even the Time Lords told stories about the Doctor. Just because the Master's from Gallifrey doesn't mean he's the same thing."

"I hope you're not trying to tell me that we don't need to worry," Sam said dryly.

Jack laughed. "No, I'm not saying that," he said. "I'm just saying that the Doctor is still on our side."

"And a prisoner," Sam reminded him.

"And on our side," Jack echoed. He leaned his head back, hands wrapped around the chains that bound him to the pillars, looking almost jovial as he let his weight fall back and said, "While there's life, there's hope, Sammy!" He looked down and grinned. "Sam. Sorry. Guess it's _really_ not Sammy anymore. Dean still call you that?"

Sam froze, and he guessed that he let more emotion than he had intended into his face, because Jack stood upright and stilled. "Sam—"

"Dean's dead," Sam replied, his voice dull and lifeless. "He's been dead since May."

There was a long moment where nothing was said. Sam covered his eyes with his hand, gritting his teeth to keep back the grief. But compounded with the aching in his body, it was a difficult fight.

Jack was speaking again and Sam heard, "I don't under—" and then a pause. "Your brother was a good—"

"I don't," Sam began, swallowing hard and screwing up his face into a scowl. Jack fell silent. "You don't," Sam tried again.

"Sam," Jack said, but Sam shook his head.

"You don't—you don't need to say that," Sam finally said. "You don't need to say anything. It—happened. It's been four months. At least I've had the end of the world to keep me occupied."

"Yeah," Jack said softly. "We can always count on that."

"You know," Sam said, and even as the words came out of his mouth he didn't know why he was saying it, "you said something, that time. At the church, when you saved me from...whatever it was that took me."

He paused a moment, to see if Jack would fill in that bit of information he'd never been able to figure out, but the Undying Man was silent. So Sam continued. "Before you...fixed me. You told me something. You said I couldn't hurt you."

"And you didn't," Jack interjected, his voice too gentle.

"You're the only person," Sam said, then cleared his throat and tried again: "You're the only person who can say that. All these years, people have fallen around me like flies. Everybody I care about. You're the only person I can't hurt and I just...I want you to know that those words...they stayed with me. For fourteen years."

He felt that he had to say that, but he expected an unwelcome reaction from Jack. Pity. Sympathy. Uncomfortable fidgeting. But laughter was one he didn't expect.

It wasn't fully jovial—there was an undertone of dry bitterness to it—but he laughed, and said, "God, you really _are_ related to the Doctor, aren't you?"

Sam was stunned. "_What_?"

"He told me," Jack said. "About the blood. About what happened earlier this year. And you sounded _just like him_ right there. You know, all of that _I hurt everybody I care about_ is just him to a T. It doesn't help him, and it won't help you, so you might as well ditch it now."

"You died for me back at Hanging Rock," Sam said, his teeth gritted. "My mom died because of my blood. My dad died because of this stupid hunt for the thing that did it to me. My brother died and is being tortured in Hell to bring me back to life. My girlfriend died because I tried to escape from all this. The Doctor was tortured in Hell for trying to help me."

"And is being really sorry about it going to make those things any less true?" Jack asked, and Sam quieted. "Bad things happen when you have an important life, Sam. And nobody _wants_ an important life. It just happens. So buckle down, get Zen, and get used to it, because it's gonna get worse before it gets better. You just get accustomed to it. You surround yourself with people who've made the same choice as you: to do something with your life, no matter how hard or how miserable it is."

"Jessica didn't choose this," Sam snapped.

Jack's expression softened, and his voice was milder as he said, "No, I know. And I'm sorry. But think of the people you've saved. Think of how many people are walking around today because of you and your brother. You don't hurt everyone you touch, Sam. You just remember those people, because you're a good man." Jack lowered his eyes, and Sam had to strain to hear him as he said, "Don't destroy yourself over it, Sam. That's what he does."

Sam had nothing to say to that, and instead focused on breathing in and out, in and out, calming a second wave of nausea that was lapping at him. Nausea from the vortex sickness, he knew, but also from fact that he'd spoken about his brother. The only way for him to keep a lid on things was to be silent about it.

A month since he'd said Dean's name.

"What about you?" he asked, to distract himself. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, sure," Jack said airily. "Never better. The Master's been having fun figuring out exactly what I can survive, which, so far, is everything."

"Why do you call him that?" Sam asked. "Why don't you just call him Saxon? Calling him _that_...it sounds like giving up."

"Saxon's not his name," Jack replied. "Harold Saxon doesn't exist. Saxon's the name that he fooled the whole world with. He's the Master, just like the Doctor is the Doctor. It's the name he chose but it's the name he's always had. Doesn't mean I serve him. I'm just calling a spade a spade."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but froze when he heard the sound of heavy doors opening. He looked up at Jack, who was also still, staring ahead of himself.

"Don't let him lie to you," Jack whispered. "The Doctor's going to figure this out. He always does. He'll tell you whatever he thinks it'll take for you to join him but _don't listen to him_. Believe in the Doctor, and believe in Martha."

Sam nodded frantically as _thump thump thump_ his heart raced with fear. The sound of footfalls echoed through the room, and finally, a man came into view.

He was small, blond, but with an air of authority and malice that surrounded him like a miasma. He stopped a few yards in front of Jack, but his eyes fell on Sam.

"Samuel Winchester," he said, and walked up to him, crouching by him. He tucked a lock of Sam's sweat-slick hair behind his ear, and smiled a too-wide smile. "The boy with the Time Lord blood."

"Get away from me," Sam spat, trying to control the trembling that had started in his limbs. Saxon ignored him, taking Sam's left hand gently into his own and holding up a small key with his right hand. Sam stared at it as Saxon lowered it into the lock and unshackled him.

"Welcome home, my dear boy," Harold Saxon said. "Welcome to the beginning of your new empire."


	7. Chapter Six: Martha Jones

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay! My kid sister moved away for college this weekend, so there were Very Big Feelings and not a lot of time for writing. I am also a little meh about this chapter so please give me honest feedback; if it doesn't make sense or seems out of character for anybody, I'll revise it.

* * *

Martha did not cry when she saw Bobby Singer's house in front of her, big and warm and so much like home. She made damn sure of that.

She didn't cry when the door opened and Bobby stood there, demanding to know what was going on and who she was.

She didn't cry when she saw Castiel standing behind Bobby, looking a little embarrassed and more than a little suspicious.

She focused instead on the relief in her ankle as Bobby slung her arm around his shoulders and took her weight onto him. She focused on the cool air in the house as he guided her gently inside, solicitous and concerned and so much gentler than she knew was typical for him.

She knew that it was only delirious relief that was causing him to react so well to her: relief that Dean hadn't gotten himself killed, relief that Dean wasn't even hurt, relief that the only thing he'd brought back with him was an unarmed young woman, and reluctant, tentative hope at the idea that she was actually who she said she was.

They stepped through the door together, and she didn't get caught by the Devil's Trap that she knew for a fact was under the rug in front of the door. She'd helped re-paint it one weekend after bringing the boys back from the Andromeda galaxy. Test one.

She saw as Bobby surreptitiously dipped his fingers into a holy water font on the wall, then brushed her bare neck with them. That font had been the Doctor's idea—easier than having to open a flask every time they suspected someone of being other than human, he'd said. Bobby had installed it the next day. She didn't even shiver at the cold touch of the liquid. Test two.

Bobby laid her gently on the couch, and she smiled gratefully up at him. He looked a bit uncomfortable and started to say something, but she interrupted him. "You can go ahead and get the silver knife. It's all right."

He stared at her, taken aback, as Dean and Castiel entered the room, talking quietly. Well, Castiel was talking quietly. Dean was attempting to, but he never did seem to realize how far his voice carried.

"You said you weren't gonna tell him," he said accusingly.

Castiel looked less than amused, but responded too softly for Martha to hear. Dean made a face, but didn't give a retort back. Instead he nodded, casting his eyes down.

That was odd.

Martha was in the process of leaning forward to finally get a look at her ankle when she saw that Castiel's attention was suddenly and fully on her. She stopped, meeting his eyes, not looking away as he approached her.

She'd never been scared of Castiel, not really. She knew what he was, of course, knew what he was capable of. But Martha Jones was the Doctor's Companion. She'd seen much more terrible things in the universe than Castiel, and anyway, he was on her side. He was the Winchesters' protector, their guardian, and the Doctor's friend. Her friend, too. Her awkward, strange friend, who made even the Doctor look totally normal and human, but her friend.

But now he was looking at her like a curiosity to be understood at best, and at worst, a threat to be eradicated, and she felt a thrill of fear begin at the base of her spine.

"What are you?" Castiel asked, standing by the sofa, looking down at her. She'd seen that look before, when he regarded some monster they'd come across, some alien he hadn't known of previously. She never thought that it would be turned on her. "You are saturated with artron energy. This is your correct time, but you have centuries worth of the energy collected on you." His eyes darkened, and his hand raised, and Martha couldn't take her eyes off of it. "Just like the creatures outside."

Martha braced herself, but Bobby threw himself between them. "Don't you hurt her!" he shouted, and Martha gasped in a breath she barely realized she'd forgotten to take. "What she _is_ is our only hope to stop Saxon. If she's who she says she is, she's our only shot."

"You don't know for sure if she's the right girl?" Dean asked, and Martha sat up. He turned to her, and the cautious suspicion in his eyes was like a knife to her gut. But she didn't react.

Instead, as Bobby said, "Well, it ain't like Martha Jones is likely to let Saxon's goons take a picture of her for wanted posters," she turned to Castiel. The angel still looked like he'd prefer to smite her clear off this plane of existence rather than risk it, but she swallowed her fear and met his gaze firmly. He looked a bit surprised, and Martha took that opportunity.

"You can tell," she said, and he narrowed his eyes while Bobby and Dean turned to watch them. "You can read my mind. You'll know I'm telling the truth. Please. I need you to trust me. I need your help, and I need you to trust me."

She carefully moved her legs from the sofa onto the floor, sitting up and looking at Castiel expectantly. Still frowning, he sat down next to her—the movement looked awkward and ungainly on him, and she realized that this was a good bit earlier than she'd been before. September, 2008. She thought for a moment, trying to form a timeline in her mind of her previous visits.

September, 2008.

She gasped and looked past Castiel to Dean, who watched her warily.

He'd just come back.

She looked down at his hands and yes, the fingernails were broken, the first segments of his fingers still bloodied. The creases of his hands were still black with grave dirt, and he kept rolling back his left shoulder—the one with the scar that would be so unfamiliar to him. And more than anything else, his eyes kept flicking back to Castiel, like he couldn't believe that the angel was really there, that he really existed. There was no taking him for granted, not yet. When she'd known them—when she would know them—(Martha silently cursed the difficulty of grammatical tense when talking about time travel)—Castiel was an institution, practically a third brother, expected to be there and treated with no more gentleness than that with which the boys treated each other. But Dean's gaze, when it fell on Castiel, was still filled with wonder. Castiel wasn't his team-mate, yet. He was still his savior.

He'd _just_ come back, and the idea of how much pain he must be in—how fresh the memories of his torture must be, when she'd seen him struggle with them later in his life, when he knew her—made her chest constrict with empathetic grief.

"What?" Dean said, fidgeting a bit under her stare.

She snapped out of it, shaking her head and breaking the eye contact. "Nothing," she said softly. "Sorry, nothing."

Castiel had been sitting there the whole time, growing less and less pleased with Martha's fixation on his charge, and when Martha turned back to him she was met with narrowed eyes and a set jaw. He lifted his hands, and she didn't wince. She just pressed her lips together and nodded.

"It has been...a significant amount of time, since I have made use of this ability while within the confines of a vessel," Castiel said by way of warning, and Martha nodded again. "I cannot promise that it will be comfortable."

"I've walked here from London, via Jakarta, Kiev, and Tokyo," said Martha dryly. "Uncomfortable, I can do."

Castiel regarded her, then said, "Very well." He laid the tips of his fingers against her face, resting lightly on her temples—

(—his fingers were surprisingly soft, he didn't have the callouses he would have later, the thick skin built up from using Jimmy Novak's body in battle, and oh, god, Jimmy, this was all new for Jimmy, she wondered if he was scared or if he was still excited to be serving Heaven—)

—and closed his eyes. She tried to calm her thoughts, to let him just see what he needed to see; that she was Martha Jones, that she was the Doctor's Companion, that she was on their side and against Saxon, that she truly wanted to help them. That she was trustworthy, that she was a friend. She breathed deep, even, and ignored the pain in her ankle.

That last focus became quickly much easier when Castiel's consciousness entered her mind like a flood breaking a dam.

She faintly heard herself gasping, a ragged, painful sound, but she couldn't focus on it or much of anything because this wasn't _anything_ like when the Doctor checked on her mind, this wasn't careful or delicate or courteous, it was all force and clumsy power and single-minded focus and that focus was not her comfort: it was only finding what he needed and making sure that she wasn't there to hurt Dean.

Her mind had been connected to others psychically enough times that she was able to catch some reciprocal thoughts from the angel, and so

_just pulled him from the Pit I will not have him in danger again so soon if she is not who she says she is I will_

mingled with her own thoughts and faded in and out of the foreground amongst her memories of

_Castiel please just talk to the Doctor he'd know best what you're going through I wish I could say something to make it better but I_

layered above

_I did not tell her my name she is not a prophet yet she has foreknowledge how is_

and everything tinged with

_oh my god why does this hurt it doesn't hurt when the Doctor this has to be over it has to end when will_

And suddenly, his fingers lifted, the pain stopped abruptly, and Martha realized she'd been screaming.

She lifted a shaking hand to her aching, raw throat as Castiel stood, gazing down at her with that expressionless face she'd learned to interpret over the years, and she knew that he was concerned. But he said, "She is who she claims to be. She is Martha Jones, and she escaped from London, and she seeks the downfall of Harold Saxon."

Martha took a breath to thank him, but Castiel continued. "However, I do not fully understand what you are, Martha Jones, or how you know us. How you know my name, my nature, and of Dean's return this morning, among other things."

"What?" Dean asked, startled, turning wide eyes from Castiel to Martha. "My—what? What do you know about me?"

Again Martha tried to answer, and again Castiel cut her off. "She knows of your time in Hell, the deal you made at the crossroads, and of your return and the circumstances surrounding it." The angel turned to Martha, studying her. "She knows, in fact, of events from your time in Hell that I know for a fact you have not spoken of aloud since your return."

"Like w—" Dean began, but stopped when he saw Martha shaking her head. He paled, understanding. "How the hell do you know about that," he growled.

Bobby frowned. "Know about what?" he asked, and Dean shook his head tightly.

"Know about any of it," Dean said. "What the hell are—"

"Like I said before," Martha interrupted, "I'm with the Doctor. Time travel. Right? Our timelines don't always sync up. I've met you before, all of you. Last time I saw you it was _years_ in the future for you." She tried to stand, to convince Dean that she—

But her ankle gave out under her and she fell to the ground.

And when she hit the ground, she realized that she wasn't going to stand up again on her own.

The room spun around her, and it was in a haze that she felt hands on her arms, helping her back onto the couch. "Martha?" Bobby's voice came as though from a distance. "What's wrong with her, Dean?"

"I don't know," said Dean, sounding flustered. "She...her foot was hurt, but she said she was okay. She walked back with me. She kept up all right."

A cool hand on her foot, icy on the heat she didn't realize was emanating from it. It felt like it ought to be steaming. She gasped and shivered.

"It is broken." Castiel's voice was calm and clinical as he made the diagnosis. "And it is infected. Given my limited understanding of human anatomy I am surprised that she has been able to fight off the fever for as long as she has, but now that she is in a place where she feels safe, her body is succumbing."

"Succumbing?" Dean echoed. "I don't like the way that sounds, Cas."

_Cas_. Martha's lips quirked up into what she intended as a smile but she was pretty sure just came out as a grimace. Less than twenty four—no, probably less than _twelve_ hours into their acquaintanceship and already Dean had developed the nickname.

Cas. Sammy. Doc. She wondered, if this timeline progressed, whether or not she was able to stop Saxon, if she'd ever hear Dean's nickname for _her_ again.

"When was the last time you allowed your body rest, Martha?" Castiel asked, and his voice was gentler, but in a way that wasn't totally comforting—a bit like a doctor speaks to a terminal patient.

"Really rest?" Martha croaked, as the world started to coalesce into a semblance of order around her. "Probably...three weeks. I just escaped Japan. I...it was hard to catch a break, in Japan."

She closed her eyes, quelling a surge of emotion as the memories of her last moments in Tokyo started to surface. When she opened them, Dean was crouched by her. She supposed that if anyone would recognize the signs of suppressing awful memories, it would be a Winchester. "Japan?" he prompted gently.

She looked up at him, and wondered if she should lie. Just a comforting lie. If anybody deserved a little comfort, wasn't it Dean, and wasn't it now? Yes, Japan, bit of trouble, almost got caught, managed to get out in the nick of time, isn't life funny. He'd have the weight of the world on his shoulders soon enough. He didn't need more bad news.

But she couldn't lie. She never could, not to him or his brother. So she whispered, "The Toclaphane. The...spheres. They killed everyone in Japan. I couldn't stop it. I barely made it out."

Dean's look of horror made her wish she hadn't had to say it, but sadly, it was a familiar expression on his face. And to her, better than the suspicion, the doubt, the distrust. Now, they would be in a battle together. Brothers-in-arms, as they should be.

"Everyone?" Bobby said, and she nodded wearily. "Damn. God dammit."

Castiel shot Bobby a disapproving glance, but made no response to the blasphemy. Instead, he sat on the edge of the sofa by Martha's feet, and put his cold fingers back on her broken ankle.

Broken. And she'd been so irritated at herself for being such a baby about a little sprained ankle. Broken, and infected. She pulled up her pant leg and sucked in a breath through her teeth. There wasn't bone jutting, but she'd managed to cut herself deep on something, and she could see the angry red swelling.

It felt instantly better under the coolness of Castiel's fingers, though.

He studied the wound for a moment, closed his eyes, and Martha gasped as she felt his power surge into her foot, as she felt bone knit and flesh close. She felt her body cool as the fever abated, and she leaned against the pillow on the couch, overwhelmed with relief, from the pain and from the heat of the fever.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Castiel didn't reply to that, but stood. "She will recover," he told Bobby and Dean. "Her body is weary from fighting the illness, and she will need rest. But the infection is gone and her bone is healed."

Dean stared at Castiel for a long moment, then crouched by Martha and hovered hesitant fingers over her ankle. He looked up at her for permission, and she nodded. He pulled up the fabric of her cargo pants and looked at the unmarred skin in disbelief.

"Damn," he said. He looked up at the angel, his eyes full of a thousand questions that Martha knew he'd never voice. She knew he was thinking about all of the scars that he'd once had that were gone (_god, did he complain about that when he knew her_), about the angel taking the time to knit his body back together from death. And she knew Dean well enough to know that he was thinking, well, of _course_ an angel would heal the woman that Bobby said was their only hope against Harold Saxon. But why would an angel heal him?

She wondered if, in this timeline, things might go differently with Dean and Castiel. If the two of them might be able to avoid the mistakes

(_I thought angels were supposed to be guardians...not dicks_)

(_I dragged you out of Hell, I can throw you back in_)

that they'd made in the past. Or the last time this was the present.

Martha was entirely too tired for this.

She put a hand over her eyes, and said, "I'm so sorry, but could I...just rest, for a minute? I promise I'll explain why I'm here when I wake up, but I just...I can't keep my eyes open, I really can't."

"You're just gonna fall asleep in a room full of strangers, in a world like this?" Dean sounded truly incredulous, and it was almost funny. "How the hell are you still alive?"

She smiled blearily down at him, and murmured, "I'm a stranger to you, Dean. You're no strangers to me."

And before Dean could come up with a proper rebuttal, and before Martha could hear Bobby's answer of _yeah, of course_, she passed out.


	8. Chapter Seven: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: Okay, so, due to circumstances out of my control, updates might be all over the place for the foreseeable future. Hurricane Isaac and homework for grad school are both putting a cramp in my style. But rest assured that if I'm a few days late for an update, I haven't given up on this story! It will be finished. It might just take a little longer than I'd prefer. For my readers who, like me, are in Isaac's cone of uncertainty, stay safe. For all my readers, enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Martha was asleep on the couch in the den, and Dean sat straddling a chair across the room, watching her with his arms slung over the back of the chair and his chin resting on them.

She looked peaceful in a way he wouldn't have expected. She was stretched out languidly across the furniture, a soft smile curling her lips, nestled against the couch like she'd slept there before.

Which he supposed she had, if she was telling the truth.

There was a lot about her story that didn't make sense—well, he supposed it made sense in that Doctor sort of way, he just couldn't wrap his head around it. More than anything, he couldn't get past the fact that she _knew_. The one thing he wanted to keep secret, the one thing he'd vowed he wouldn't tell anyone, ever...she knew. Which meant that at some point, he'd told her. Which meant that she was someone important, or would be someone important, or something.

He was determined, right now, that he wouldn't tell anyone, and that meant that even in the future, he wouldn't tell just anybody.

_Events from your time in Hell that you have not spoken of aloud since your return_. Technically, that was pretty much all of it, other than being there and getting back. Bobby hadn't questioned him on it, but he'd been planning to say that he didn't remember any of what happened down there when the questions inevitably started. Who was gonna know better? It wasn't like Bobby had a whole cadre of Hunting buddies who'd _literally_ been to Hell and back to ask if Dean was full of crap. And anyway, maybe that would still work. Maybe Bobby would buy _I don't remember it now but maybe later I do_.

But weirdest of all was the way she'd looked at him when he started to press her on it. It was a panicked look, a look that said not to ask her, that he wouldn't like the answer, that for his sake she'd rather not talk about it. As though not only did she know what happened to him, she knew that he didn't want anyone else to know.

That would mean she really knew him—not just knew him as an acquaintance, but _knew_ him. Knew how he'd want to deal with something like this. Knew how he related to his family, to his friends. And Dean put up a pretty good front with people he met; that kind of knowledge, that understanding only came from fighting side-by-side.

He could see how she'd end up with them, though. If she was with the Doctor, it made sense. Looking like an innocent girl didn't mean anything when you were running with the Doctor. And while Rose was a tough kid, this girl seemed even tougher. Older, harder, like she'd seen things and gotten a thick skin thanks to them. He guessed that running from the Spheres—the Toclaphane, she'd called them—for however long she'd been running would do that to even the softest person, but the hardness sat well on her. It was _right_ on her.

The sadness, on the other hand, wasn't.

Her fingers twitched in her sleep, indicating how deep she was in her dreams. There was a part of him that was almost touched by the display of faith in him and in Bobby and Castiel. She was letting herself be totally vulnerable. But like she'd said, if she was telling the truth, she wasn't among strangers. Which still meant that at some point, they'd earned her trust. Even if that point hadn't happened yet.

"You gonna sit there watching her sleep all day?" Dean started at Bobby's voice, then turned and shrugged as the older Hunter walked up to him, watching Martha himself. "How long's she been out?"

"Couple hours," Dean replied. "Guess she was beat."

Bobby nodded. "Castiel said she was pretty sick," he remarked. "Poor kid's body must be taking whatever rest it can get. And that's just the physical bit. If she saw what she said happened in Japan..."

Dean exhaled slowly, in wordless agreement with Bobby's symapthy. "Think she's telling the truth about that?" he asked, and Bobby looked at him. "Japan. All of those people, dead. I mean that's...millions of people, easy, right?"

"Ain't got a reason to lie about it that I can figure," Bobby said with an uncomfortable shrug. "Gotta be a better way to earn some pity points than pretending an entire country's dead, and she don't look stupid. Besides, she seemed to know what was going on with your new pal; she'd know he'd be able to tell if she was lying."

Dean looked up. "Yeah, where is he?" he asked, and Bobby shrugged. "He must've taken off after Martha fell asleep. Wonder where he went."

"Heaven?" Bobby ventured, and Dean laughed. Right. Heaven. He was sure that was a place.

Martha stirred on the sofa, her brow furrowed, and the two men quieted, waiting until she settled back down to speak again. Dean was going to remark on Castiel's unannounced disappearance, but before he could say anything, Bobby asked, "What did Castiel mean, about the things Martha knows that you haven't talked about?"

Dean sighed, almost silently. It was only ever a matter of time, he'd always known that. But he couldn't, not yet. He knew the words wouldn't come. Not even for Bobby. He hated to lie to him, but...he couldn't face talking about it. "I don't know," he said finally, softly, as though speaking the lie too loud would make it more obviously untrue. "I don't remember anything."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, then frowned at Martha's still form. "How'd she know what happened to you, if you don't?" he asked.

"I mean, you heard her, Bobby. She's with the Doctor. She probably knows me from the future," Dean argued. "Maybe I remember. I hope not. But maybe. Or maybe it's like, an alternate future or something...where I remember. I don't know, Bobby, do I look like a friggin' time traveler?"

Bobby looked back to him, and sighed. Dean could tell he wasn't totally convinced, but at least he wasn't going to press him on it. He couldn't talk about it. He wasn't sure he ever would be able to.

Except that apparently, he told Martha.

"Can't say I'm thrilled that you lied to me and snuck out to find Sam," Bobby said lightly as Dean was pulled from his reverie. The younger Hunter closed his eyes and braced himself for the lecture. "I _told_ you it was too dangerous. Bettin' Castiel said the same thing. You're lucky you found this girl before you found anything else. Did you even get to the camp?"

Dean shook his head mutely, letting Bobby's frustration pass over him without a word. It was a technique that always worked with their dad growing up; he knew it pissed Bobby off more than it had pissed John off, but old habits died hard.

"Just as well," Bobby said. "Guards saw you just prancin' around outside the camp like the damn fool you seem to have become, you'd be hauling scrap metal from here to Phoenix before you knew what was what. You've been gone for four months, son, you can't just come back and expect nothing's changed."

"I didn't," Dean said, turning and glaring up at Bobby. His hands gripped the back of the chair tight. Expect nothing's changed. Yeah, right. "I didn't expect that at all. Don't you _dare_ tell me...everything's changed, Bobby. Way more than you know."

Bobby was silent for a moment, and then said, his voice soft, "Way more than _you_ know, too, right, Dean?"

Dean froze in the chair.

Then he pressed his lips together and looked away, muttering, "If Sammy's in that labor camp I'm gonna find him, Bobby, and I don't give a crap what you or Castiel have to—"

"Sam's not in the camp."

Both men turned at Martha's voice, watching as she wearily shifted up to a sitting position. "Woah, woah, easy," Dean said, scrambling off his chair as she winced in pain at the effort. He ran over to her and helped her up, one arm around her shoulders and the other gripping her cold hand.

She looked up at him and smiled, a bright, surprised, joyful expression that felt like a balm to the storm inside of him. Her fingers tightened around his palm, as though she were trying to memorize the contact, and she supported her weight on him as she finally sat up straight. "Thanks," she murmured as Dean released her, crouching on the ground beside her.

"Now what'd you say about Sammy?" he prompted, once she seemed to have gotten her bearings.

Martha ran her hands through her hair, pulling out the hair-band and combing her hair out with her fingers. "I was at the camp to try to find Sam," she said. "I wanted to make sure all of you were okay. I spoke to a...a woman at the camp, who said she knew him. But she said that by the time I got there, he'd already been transferred."

"Transferred," Dean echoed, a dull emptiness in his voice. Well, why wouldn't he have been. Even if everything had changed, the old Winchester luck remained constant, at least. "What does that mean, transferred?"

Martha shook her head helplessly. "I don't know for sure. But I have my suspicions, and they're not great. No, he's not—it's not like that, Dean, calm down. If he's where I think he is, they're not gonna kill him. And he'll have allies there. But it just means that we need to move faster."

Dean looked down at his hands for a moment, tensing his fingers and calming himself. This wasn't her fault (_probably_). He didn't need to be angry with her; it wouldn't help. But a petty voice in his head whispered that it wouldn't hurt, either, and didn't he deserve to be a little angry right now? Hadn't he earned angry? "I don't have time to deal with you being vague," he said slowly, settling on a compromise of _being angry_ but _staying calm_. He felt Martha's eyes on him. "If you know where my brother is, tell me. I don't have—_Sammy_ doesn't have time for me to waste."

Martha took a few deep breaths, kneading the threadbare pillow on the couch rhythmically and fretfully. "I really am not positive," she said, as a disclaimer, he guessed, "but if I had to guess, I'd say that Sam's aboard the Valiant right now."

It didn't mean anything to Dean, and he was about to complain about that, but it apparently meant something to Bobby because his mouth fell slightly open and he said, "The _Valiant_? What in the hell would Saxon want with _Sam_?"

"Saxon?" Dean echoed.

"The Valiant is the Master's airship," Martha explained, her voice brisk and cold as though she'd had to say this a thousand times, "stolen from UNIT and repurposed as his base and headquarters. It's where he stays. He's never come down to Earth, not since he took over."

"But why bring Sam there?" Bobby asked again.

"It's also where he keeps his highest-priority prisoners," Martha replied, and Bobby fell silent. "Sam would make sense. Aboard, he already has Captain Jack Harkness. My family. And the Doctor."

Dean let that process for a moment.

He stood up, and Martha's gaze followed him, watching him warily as he dragged his hands through his hair. "Saxon has Sammy, your family, the Doctor, _and_ the guy who saved me and Sammy fourteen years ago in West Virginia?" he said, his voice quieter and more calm than he expected it to be. "Why'd Jack even—oh." It clicked, suddenly, in Dean's head. "A friend of a friend. The Doctor sent Jack."

"Jack's been an associate of the Doctor for a century and a half," Martha confirmed. "The Master's rounding up everyone with ties to the Doctor, everyone he can find. That's why they say I _escaped_ from London. The Master's scared to death of the Doctor and he's trying to make sure nobody's out there to carry out his plans."

"So what part of that means that he's not gonna kill Sam?" Dean demanded.

Martha met his eyes evenly, and he suddenly realized that while his brother was on that ship, so was her family, and maybe he could have been a little gentler with her, but dammit, it was _Sammy_ on that ship so he didn't apologize. "If he wins, what's going to happen to this planet and the entire universe is worse than you can imagine," she said quietly. "He's gonna want us all to see it. He's not gonna kill us until we've witnessed it. Until we've watched the Doctor fail the Earth so badly that none of us can recover from it." She paused, and seemed to deflate a bit as she leaned against the sofa. "And _then_ he'll kill us. But not until then."

"You mentioned a plan," Bobby said, and Martha looked up at him, something that was almost a grim smile on her lips. "Figure that's what we probably ought to be talking about, just now."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, and he realized it was irrational but it didn't matter. "That's what we ought to be talking about, Bobby? Not Sam?"

"Not things we can't fix," Bobby spat back, and Dean quieted. "If the Doctor has a plan it's the best we got, because I sure as hell ain't got one, and my guess is neither do you since you didn't even know this was going on twelve hours ago. So why don't you shut up and listen to the lady who knows what's happening and what to do about it?"

Dean scowled, but obeyed. Bobby was right. He wasn't going to help Sammy by flailing around and getting himself killed by the Tocla-whatever-the-hell, but it _killed_ him to wait around while Saxon could be hurting his brother. Was probably hurting his brother. Sitting to the side while something like that was happening wasn't the Winchester way.

He turned reluctantly to Martha, who was looking at him in a way that suggested way more understanding than she had a right to. "The Doctor's gonna save Sam," she said. "I promise, Dean. He's not gonna let the Master have him. And I swear, neither am I."

The ferocity in her voice was unexpected and it startled Dean a little bit. When he studied her, he saw something he couldn't decipher in her eyes, a layer above the hardness and the pain that was being compressed into strength like coal into diamonds, and he didn't know what to make of it. But he believed her. He believed that Sam was a priority for her. And he believed that she would help him get his brother back.

"What does the Doctor want us to do?" Dean asked, and he was _so close_ to not spitting the alien's name out. So close.

Bobby gave him an odd look, but Martha said, "It's simple."

"Martha's building a gun," Bobby interrupted, and Martha glanced at him, looking patient but a little put out. "Four chemicals, scattered across the globe, that can kill Saxon."

"What is Saxon?" Dean asked.

"Time Lord," Martha said curtly.

Dean gaped.

"Seems the Doctor is the second-to-last of his kind after all," Martha continued, "but that's beside the point. Bobby's right, that's the story we've been spreading. But I can tell the two of you the truth, because Dean, I need you, I need your help."

"Saxon's a Time Lord?" Dean exclaimed. "How the hell are we supposed to kill a Time Lord? Don't they just come back?"

"Time Lords do regenerate, but that's _also_ beside the point," Martha said, and Dean could hear the irritation rising in her voice. "There's...there's no gun." Her voice dropped until it was barely a whisper, as though she was afraid to be heard. "The gun is a story to get the Master afraid. It's a diversion. What I've been doing is telling people about the Doctor, telling them a story, and for that, I need _your_ help, Dean."

Dean shook his head slowly, and it was at least as much rejection as it was confusion, looking down at Martha as he stood next to the sofa. "I don't understand," he said. "Need my help with _what_?"

Martha was quiet for a moment, and put her hand over Dean's. He stared down at it, remembering when Rose had done exactly that in the woods, after he'd managed to screw up and let slip how freaking _much_ his life sucked, how scared it made him. Martha's hand was still cold. He wondered if her fever was back. "The Doctor always said you were special," she said, and Dean didn't flinch, as much as he wanted to. "I _know_ you are. The Doctor always says, nobody believes as hard as Dean Winchester."

Dean scoffed, but Martha gripped his hand with both of hers and he was silent.

"And it's true, Dean. The faith you have in people, whether they deserve it or not, it's _stunning_. And we need that right now, more than ever. I need you to help me tell people why they need to believe that the Doctor's going to save them, that he's going to come for them, that he always has. I need you to help me tell his story. Can you help me?"

Dean looked at Martha's hands around his. He looked up at her face, so determined, so passionate and so full of trust. He looked at Bobby, whose face was neutral. And Cas wasn't around to guide him.

So maybe it was a mistake, but screw it, what part of his life wasn't.

He slid his hand out from between Martha's, ignoring the look of surprise and hurt on her face as he stood.

"I can't," he said, and started up the stairs.

"Why?" Martha demanded from behind him. "Even if it's the only plan we have to get Sam back? Even if it's the only plan we have to save our planet? Dean, _why_?"

Dean stopped, and turned around in the doorway. His voice sounded cold even to himself as he said, "The Doctor says I believe harder than anybody else. Maybe that's true. If it is, the opposite is true, too, then. Because when I lose faith in somebody, it's _gone_. And I'm sorry, Martha. But I don't have any faith in the Doctor. You're gonna have to find somebody else."

He couldn't face her again as he headed up the stairs. He'd find his own way to save Sammy.

Somehow.


	9. Chapter Eight: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: Isaac passed my home without damage, but please keep in your thoughts the people who did lose their homes...there were a lot of them. I'm taking a moment to be grateful for what I have and what I've kept through this storm.

On a happier note, I managed to get this chapter out pretty quickly and the next should practically write itself. And in the meantime, I am chomping at the bit because I've written this delightfully terrible angsty sequence of snippets that will fit eventually into story featuring Eleven set in SPN S6. It'll be a little bit before we get there but oh, when we do.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks for all the feedback! It's really encouraging that people are invested in this story and this universe.

* * *

Despite his brother's fears, Sam Winchester was not being hurt by Harold Saxon.

In fact, quite the opposite. Sam was sitting at a large mahogany table across from Saxon, faced with the first real meal that he'd seen in months (steak, green beans, potatoes, and a glass of wine), and his mouth was watering but he wouldn't lift a hand to touch the food or drink. Instead he kept his hands clenched into fists, his back ramrod straight, and his eyes fixed on Saxon, waiting for any threatening move, any indication that this dinner was taking a turn for the worse. He still felt woozy, a little drunk, almost, but his head was clear enough to know that you don't take candy from strangers, and you don't take _anything_ from your enemies.

Saxon, for his part, seemed extremely amused by Sam's distrust as he tucked into his own meal with a hearty-bordering-on-voracious appetite. His young wife, introduced to Sam at the beginning of the meal as Lucy, sat next to him, eyes cast down, picking at her food listlessly while sending anxious glances her husband's way at regular intervals. A slinky red dress hung limply on her thin frame, her blonde hair piled on her head, but no make-up and no shoes. She hadn't looked at Sam, not even once.

"Come on, my boy, eat!" Saxon cried, lifting his own wine glass as though in a toast. Sam ignored him but to intensify his glare. "I'm sure it's been long enough since you've had anything good to eat. It's not poisoned, if that's what you're worried about. Look." Saxon leaned over the table, and Sam stiffened in his seat, leaning away from the table. But all Saxon did was spear a piece of meat and shove it into his mouth, chewing in a way that was practically triumphant. "See?" he said, after swallowing loudly to make his point. "No poison."

"Not to you," Sam retorted through gritted teeth. "Not sure I'm gonna believe that everything that's poisonous to humans is poisonous to Time Lords."

Saxon's pale eyebrows shot up, and he laughed, looking over to Lucy to share in his amusement. The woman's eyes flickered up to her husband for a brief moment, and she gave a watery smile, then looked back down at the table. "So we figured it out!" he crowed. "And fast. Good boy, very clever. I see what he sees in you."

"What who sees in me?" Sam demanded, although he knew the answer.

"Your precious Doctor," Saxon replied, his voice light and dismissive. "He's got quite the obsession with you, Sam. Thinks you're something special."

"Wouldn't be the first time he's been wrong, would it?" Sam shot back, eliciting another peal of laughter from Saxon. Lucy flinched this time at the sound, and Sam shot her a sympathetic look. She responded with the expression of a deer in the headlights, and looked down, moving her food around on her plate with her fork.

"Now, now," Saxon said, making a _tsk_ sound, "I'm sure he'd be hurt if he heard you talking like that."

"The rest of us have had to learn to live with disappointment," Sam said shortly. "So can he."

That earned him a narrowing of Saxon's eyes, a long, studying stare. "You know," Saxon said casually, "days gone by, I would have dismissed you as nothing more than a distasteful aberration of Time Lord genetics."

Sam tried to pretend that it didn't hurt to hear that, regardless of how little he cared about Saxon's opinion of him. One more person who saw him as a freak. Humans didn't want him, demons were done with him, and now aliens didn't want him. Great.

"But," Saxon was saying, "desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say, and while your lineage may not be ideal, you are the closest thing to a Time Lord that exists outside of myself and the Doctor."

A response seemed to be expected of Sam, but he had nothing to say. He glowered down at the nearly-untouched food on his plate, his nails digging painfully into his palms as he clenched his hands tighter to avoid doing anything stupid.

Although with Dean gone, with Bobby probably dead, he didn't know why he bothered to be smart. What was there to survive for?

"Your time in the camps wasn't pleasant, was it, Sam?" Saxon asked, and his voice was so damn _sympathetic_ that it made Sam want to hit him. "I expect not. They exist for a purpose, and that purpose is not recreation. But answer me. Have you enjoyed the past few months?"

His voice was tightly controlled as Sam answered, "You know the answer to that."

"I suppose I do," Saxon admitted. "But you're out now, Sam! You're out, and if you'd like, you can stay out. Aren't you _grateful_?" His smile didn't fade, but his eyes darkened subtly as he said, "I feel as though you ought to be grateful, Sam."

A faint shiver ran down Sam's spine, but he didn't shift in his seat, didn't move, just said, "All I want is for you to tell me why you brought me here."

Saxon looked disappointed as he leaned back in his seat. "Really thought that'd be glaringly obvious by this point," he said. "If I knew the answer to my question, Sam, then you know the answer to that one, so let's do each other a favor and stop asking rhetorical questions. _You_ tell _me_ why you're here."

"My blood," Sam said dully. "It's because of my blood. But what do you _want_? I'm not...I don't even have visions anymore. Whatever it is that the Doctor's blood did to me, it's done."

Ruby's blood, on the other hand...Sam resisted the urge to rub his arm. He was starting to ache. He knew he had a good twenty-four hours before it got bad, before what could really fairly be known as withdrawal started to hit, but he was starting to ache, and Saxon wasn't letting him go any time soon.

When Sam looked up, Saxon was shaking his head. "That's not true, Sam, and you know it." The Time Lord sounded patient but let down, like a parent who'd just heard from his chocolate-covered child that he hadn't taken a cookie, he promised. "The Doctor even _told_ you it wasn't, didn't he? That your brain was rewired. Permanently."

"Doesn't mean anything," Sam argued. "So my brain's rewired. I can't _do_ anything. Whatever you want done, you can do it better than I can."

"Probably," Saxon agreed. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and Sam shrank away. "But this isn't about wanting something from you, Sam. For once, somebody's not asking you to give and give and give without getting anything in return. I don't want anything from you. All I want is for you to join me. I want to give you a seat next to me in the new Time Lord Empire. I want you beside me, Sam Winchester."

It was unexpected. Sam sat frozen in his chair for a long moment, watching Saxon's manic eyes as the Time Lord eagerly awaited his answer, hearing the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears again. "You want me to join you," Sam echoed.

"Yes," Saxon said. "I want you beside me. We are the last of our kind, Sam, you and me and the Doctor. The Doctor won't join me—you know him. He's never been willing to do what must be done in order to achieve a goal."

_The billions dead in the Time War would disagree_ ran through Sam's mind, but he was prudent enough not to say it out loud. Saxon was continuing, anyway. "We could build something new, something beautiful, something this planet has never seen before," he said. "And you could be beside me for all of it. Creating it with me. Ruling over it, as we were intended."

"In this new vision, there's not a lot of room for humans, is there?" Sam asked.

Saxon waved a hand dismissively. "They will serve their purpose. But once it is served...they have had their way with this planet long enough."

"I'm not like you," Sam said through his teeth. "I'm not a Time Lord. I'm human. So if you want to get rid of the whole human race, you might as well start with me."

"He did a number on you, didn't he?" Saxon asked, his voice gentle, but with a harsh, bright undertone that made the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand on end. "Probably went at you with all his _embrace your humanity_ bit. But you've seen humanity, Sam; the dark, dirty, pathetic underbelly of it, all your life, in prostitutes and petty thieves in seedy motel rooms, in ungrateful humans your father and your brother and you yourself saved. What is there to embrace? A broken, pathetic little people."

Sam inhaled raggedly, and said, "You know, this whole _come to the dark side_ talk might have worked better _before_ you slaughtered a tenth of my species."

"Not your species," Saxon corrected, and his tone was harsh.

"My _brother's_ species, then," Sam snapped.

Saxon laughed, shoving his now-empty plate aside hard enough that it hit with a _clink_ against Lucy's. She startled, but said nothing, gazing at her plate with wide, disoriented eyes. "That's what it all comes down to, isn't it?" he said. "Always. Your brother. Your poor, dead brother."

"Shut up," Sam hissed.

"The anchor around your ankle, the weight on your shoulders, the albatross around your neck," Saxon said, his voice growing sharper, crueler.

"I said _shut. Up_," Sam growled, standing, shoving his chair away from the wall and sending it crashing to the ground. Distantly, he heard Lucy gasp, and out the corner of his eye he saw her hands fly to her mouth. She looked like she might be ill.

He wondered if she'd ever seen her husband crossed before.

But Saxon seemed less angry, and more thrilled, as he applauded Sam's show and laughed. "There we are!" he cried. "That's more like it. I appreciate the show of spirit, Sam, really, I do. So the Doctor wasn't wrong. It's all about your brother. Poor, lonely, stoic Dean Winchester, condemned by himself to Hell to save his baby brother."

Sam's hands clenched and unclenched as he tried to convince himself that decking the supreme leader of the planet he was stuck on was probably _not_ a winning scenario, with no back-up and no escape. "Stop talking about him," he murmured, and Saxon grew quiet to hear him. "You don't deserve to talk about him."

"The Doctor couldn't save him," Saxon pressed, and Sam turned his face away, gritting his teeth together until it hurt. "Couldn't stop his deal. All that power, all those promises, all those years of knowledge and wisdom and when it mattered, he couldn't save your brother."

"He did what he could," Sam said. "The Doctor did what he could. Dean made his deal, and nobody could break it without the whole thing coming undone. Dean wouldn't let me die, not again."

"Are you sure?" Saxon asked, and Sam turned back to him. "Are you sure the Doctor did all he could? That there was nothing else in his power he could have tried to save your brother, no other favors he could call, no other tricks up his sleeve? Have you considered, maybe, that he just didn't _care_?"

Sam felt the laugh bubble in his throat, and tried to suppress it, but it rose of its own accord, and he let it out. Saxon looked surprised. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that the Doctor did what he could. I know the Doctor. I've been in his head. He did what he could. He cared."

Instead of anger, which is what Sam was expecting, Saxon's face showed only intense focus. He stood, too, and walked around the table to Sam. He pressed a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam sat back down in his chair, startled enough to obey. "What if I told you that I could do more?" he asked quietly.

No.

"What if I told you," Saxon continued, "that I could give your brother back to you?"

No no no.

"As he was," Saxon said, "no worse for wear, alive and whole."

"You can't do that," Sam whispered. "You can't. Hell wouldn't let him out."

"Hell is full of pathetic rejects from a war that my people dominated," Saxon said, his voice light and quiet, belying his harsh words. "Barely worth my kind's notice before the War, only worth it during the War because of their foolish alliance with the Daleks that required their eradication. Unlike the Doctor, who gave himself up to them without a fight because of his idiotic dedication to non-violence, I can command them. I could take your brother back."

Dean. _Dean Dean Dean_. Sam's mind cried out for him to give Saxon whatever he wanted, to pledge his allegiance to whatever Saxon required, because _Dean_. He could end Dean's suffering, he could bring his brother back, he could make up for the deal that Dean made to save his life—he could make it worth the price.

But he wasn't sure Dean would see it the same way.

Align himself with Harold Saxon, the man who'd already killed a tenth of the human race? Harold Saxon, who'd thrown every able-bodied man and woman into work camps to make some sort of terrible weapon? Harold Saxon, who'd captured the Doctor, who'd tortured Jack Harkness for months, killing him over and over? The only two people, outside of his own family, who'd ever given a damn about him and his brother were being held and tortured by this man. And he was supposed to stand beside him?

Was it better than a deal with a demon? He'd promised Dean he wouldn't make one. He'd _promised_.

"You're lying," is what Sam settled on as a response, and his voice didn't tremble quite so much as he was afraid it would. "You can't bring him back. You're lying to me."

"Am I, Sam?" Saxon asked, crouching down and putting a hand on Sam's arm. He didn't pull away, only because he was too numb to really register Saxon's touch.

_Dean. You can save Dean. You can bring Dean back._

_No. He would never forgive you. There's another way._

_There's no other way and you know it._

Saxon sighed, a long-suffering sound, and Sam looked down at him. Saxon met his eyes, his mouth screwed up in a _well, I tried_ sort of expression, and he shrugged. "I wish you'd trust me," he said. "But if you can't, well...perhaps I ought to sweeten the pot, as they say." He stood and walked off for a moment, then glanced back at Sam. "That is what you humans say, isn't it? Sweeten the pot? Does that sound right?" When Sam didn't reply, he turned to Lucy. "Darling? Sweeten the pot?"

"Yes," Lucy whispered, keeping her eyes down. "That's right."

Saxon strode up to the large, wall-length window that led only to blue sky and clouds, and placed his hand on a console. Sam watched as the print reader lit up beneath Saxon's hand, and the window became covered by a black screen.

"Computer," Saxon said, his voice loud and authoritative. A prompt appeared at the left-hand side of the screen, waiting for instruction. "Show me the last known whereabouts of Dean Winchester."

Dean's name, along with some code that wasn't in a coding language that Sam recognized, flashed across the screen. The screen then switched into a map of the Earth, and narrowed its focus again and again until it finally centered in on Illinois.

Illinois.

How did Saxon know that Dean had died in Illinois? The Doctor didn't even know that Dean died in Illinois. Jack didn't know. Nobody knew but Sam and Bobby.

_Nobody knew where Dean Winchester died except for his brother and his foster-father._ The thought stung Sam like it hadn't in months, like it hadn't since he'd been taken to the camp. Dean deserved better than that. After all he'd done, Dean deserved better than a hastily-marked grave and two mourners to carry his memory.

The computer continued to focus what was now a satellite picture on that town in Illinois, until the picture resolved into a field that was entirely too familiar to Sam.

Except that it hadn't been a field, when they buried Dean there four months ago.

The trees were blown down like a bomb had gone off, and in the epicenter of that apparent explosion was the rough-hewn cross that had served as Dean's headstone, untouched by the chaos around it. The grave, though, was not untouched, and was caved in and ruined.

Sam's heart raced, and his mouth tasted sour as he forced back nausea. Someone had desecrated his brother's grave. Someone had _dared_ to touch Dean's grave. He suddenly knew that he was going to get off of this...ship, or whatever it was, because he was going to kill the person who'd done this. He knew it in his bones. Whoever had done this to Dean was going to pay for it.

But the satellite image didn't linger on the grave, moving instead several yards away, where a lone figure sat on the ground. Sam narrowed his eyes—the perpetrator, surely. The person whose face he would memorize, so that when he got out of this, he wouldn't mistake him once he found him. The person that he was going to—

No.

"I've taken the liberty," Saxon said, "of having your reward already available for your receipt."

Sam's mouth worked uselessly for a long moment, and he didn't have the presence of mind to be ashamed to feel a single tear roll down his cheek. "Dean?" he breathed.

He felt himself standing up and walking to the screen, hardly knowing what he was doing. He pressed trembling fingers delicately against the screen, which wavered at his touch. He pulled away quickly, not wanting to disturb the image of his brother. On the screen, Dean stretched out on the ground, staring up at the sky and, by that action, at the satellite that was recording him. It was too far away to actually make out the details, but Sam could _see_ his eyes, see the clouds reflected in them, the clarity that came with the reprieve from pain. Dean was out of Hell.

He was alive. He was whole.

Just like Saxon had promised.

Sam looked around the screen until he found what he was looking for: a time-stamp. "This was just yesterday," he said. Saxon nodded, a small smile on his face. "He came back yesterday. Is he still in Illinois? Where is he? God, he must be so confused. He hasn't been hurt, has he?"

"The Toclaphane are under orders not to harm him," Saxon replied. "Unfortunately, your brother is...talented at evading notice. We haven't been able to pick him up on satellite again since he left this field. But with your help, I'm sure we'd be able to find him again." Saxon walked over to Sam and folded his arms across his chest, watching Dean watch the sky alongside Sam. "What do you say, Sam? I've already given you more than the Doctor ever did; more than anyone else could. Will you join me?"

Sam studied the image of his brother, dressed in the clothes he was buried in, his over-shirt tied around his waist, and suppressed a smile, suppressed further tears. Dean was alive. It was all he could do to not be overcome with joy, with relief, with gratitude. But he was still a Winchester, and he knew that nothing like this came without a price. It hadn't for their father, and it hadn't for Dean. There was no reason to believe it wouldn't for Sam, even if he hadn't agreed to anything.

"How did you do it?" he asked, and Saxon turned to face him, frowning. "How did you bring him back? Who are you working with?"

"I'm not _working_ with anyone," Saxon replied.

"You're lying," Sam said, and it killed him to say it, killed him to do anything but whatever it took to get to Dean. "This is too good to be true. You're lying to me. What aren't you telling me?"

Saxon watched him for a moment, then sighed indulgently. "You need time to process this," he said. "I'll give you that time. Why don't you rest, and we'll revisit this discussion later." He patted Sam on the shoulder, and nodded to Lucy, who stood quickly and clumsily and hurried over to him. He held an arm out for her, beaming, and she wrapped her hands around it. "The boys will show you to your quarters," he continued. "Sleep well, Samuel. And do consider my offer. It is the best you'll get."

Sam watched him leave, and, once again, he didn't fight as he was taken away by black-clad men.

Because no matter what else happened, Dean was alive.

He just wondered, in a dark part of his mind, how he would be able to keep himself from joining the man who'd given everything that mattered back to him, no matter who or what that man was.


	10. Chapter Nine: Martha Jones

Author's Note: If you haven't read "What Power", which is story number two in this 'verse, I'd recommend reading it before you tackle this chapter. It's referenced heavily and expanded upon.

There is enough angst in this chapter to fill a barge, but it needed to happen before Martha and Dean can move forward, so just hold tight. I'm not 100% confident about this one, either, so let me know if it seems off. And I'm trying *so hard* to get to the Doctor, but it's hard to get to him in a story set in the Year that Never Was...but he'll have some screen time, don't worry.

* * *

Martha sat, stunned, on the couch for a long moment after Dean had stormed upstairs.

She heard his heavy footfalls (so silent on hunts; so _loud_ when he was being dramatic) all the way up the stairs, heard him slam the door hard enough that she knew it wouldn't close. That latch never worked very well. But she also knew he was too proud to shut it again, so he'd leave it open.

Martha Jones was not soft. She was not weak. And she also liked to think that she was not short-tempered or irrational. But there was only so much a person could take, from someone for whom you were doing _favors_ and whose trust you should have already earned, whether or not they'd lived through those experiences yet. She was willing to take a lot of grief from Dean Winchester, because while he hadn't earned it yet, he would, later on in his timeline. And she was willing to credit him.

But he _owed_ the Doctor, damn it. She knew what the Doctor had done for him. She knew about his tenure in Hell, and she knew it was _far_ longer than Dean's own. And it was entirely to protect Dean and his brother.

(And Rose.)

_Almost_ entirely to protect two young men that he scarcely knew from Adam, he'd delivered himself right to the doorstep of Hell and consented to its tortures for longer than Martha cared to dwell on. And this was how Dean was going to repay him? No. Not at all. Not if Martha had something to say about it.

Martha stood angrily, swayed, and staggered against Bobby, who hurried to catch her. "Woah, now," he said quickly. "Take it easy, Martha. You're not well yet."

"I have to go talk to him," Martha muttered, steadying herself. Bobby released her, cautiously and reluctantly, and she took a moment to find her balance before continuing. "Doesn't have any faith in...I'll show him faith. I'll _pummel_ some faith into his stupid head."

"The boy's confused," Bobby said, his voice placating, but Martha wasn't buying it, and the look she turned on the older Hunter said as much. "He just got back from Hell. You know him as well as you say you do, you'll understand what that means."

She did, and the thought of it softened her expression, and her shoulders slumped a bit. It never stopped hurting, thinking of the way he'd suffered. He hadn't deserved it. Neither of those boys deserved what happened to them. But if they didn't deserve it, neither did the Doctor deserve to lose their trust, after all he'd done for them. "I do," she said, "but it's not—we don't have time for it, Bobby, and I'm sorry, I wish I could let him rest, but what's it gonna help? What, should we give him time to brood about what happened to him? It won't make it better. It's too fresh. He needs to be distracted, and if _we_ don't distract him, he'll do it himself, and he'll get himself killed. You know I'm right."

Bobby frowned, contemplating, then sighed deeply. "Guess you do know him," he said sardonically.

Martha laughed, soft and sad. "Yeah," she said. "Can I...can I go talk to him, now?"

Bobby nodded, and Martha smiled at him before turning to go up the stairs.

And almost ran straight into Castiel.

"Oh my g—oh!" Martha gasped, suppressing a shriek and a use of Castiel's Father's name in vain simultaneously. It had been a _long_ time since Castiel had popped up in front of her like that...he'd gotten better about personal space before she met him, she supposed. Not much better. But a little better. "I'm sorry, Castiel, you frightened me. I'm not—you don't usually—that is to say, I—"

His expression told her clearly that he neither understood nor cared to decipher what she was on about, and he said, cutting off her fumbling, "Martha, I am hoping you can enlighten me. I have been attempting to contact Heaven, but I am unable to do so. I have not been cut off from the Host, as I initially feared; my Grace is fully intact. But my brothers are not answering. You know more about the world as it is now than any of us. Do you have any suspicions as to why this may be?"

That shut Martha up quick. Fantastic. It was worse than she'd been afraid of. Martha exhaled slowly, passing a hand over her face and planting her hands on her hips, settling her stance before saying, "I didn't quite expect that. Basically, this planet is scheduled for extinction. Nobody in or out. And since Heaven is a spatially adjacent pocket dimension, or, I suppose, a collection of them, odds are none of your brothers can break the barrier now that it's been sealed. I'm willing to bet you were already on your way back to Earth with Dean when they were sealing the planet, and the two of you made it in right under the wire."

Castiel, who looked like he'd been mostly following, narrowed his eyes at her metaphor. "There was no wire," he said plainly.

Martha pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, I know, I'm sorry, Castiel. It was a turn of phrase. I meant just in time. Just before they cut it off."

"Then my brothers are barred from this planet, and I cannot return to Heaven," Castiel said, processing her words. She nodded.

"I'm sorry," she added. "I know that...I know how hard it is for you."

Castiel's eyes sharpened, losing the look of distance they'd held before, and he fixed her with a piercing, studious stare. "You know," he said. "From when you know me, later in this timeline."

"Yes," Martha agreed. "So basically, what you're saying is that we can't count on any...angelic assistance, outside of yourself."

The look that faded into Castiel's eyes was equal parts solemn and sad, and it was one that Martha had only seen a few times. It evidently never got any easier to see. "That is correct," the angel said, his voice betraying no emotion. "Whatever there is to be done to save this planet, we are on our own."

"Typical," Martha said, and was surprised to hear an echo in Bobby's voice. She looked up at him, and he looked as startled as she felt. She stifled a grin, and ran her hands through her hair, exhaling evenly.

"I really ought to go talk to Dean, though," she said, and Castiel's eyes narrowed, obviously wondering what there was to talk to his charge about, but Bobby just nodded and Martha excused herself from the room, walking up the stairs.

Sure enough, the door to the guest bedroom was open, and Martha leaned on the door frame, rapping her knuckles against it. She was gratified to see Dean jump, just a little bit, before she realized that he was so anxious because he'd _just come back from Hell_, which somewhat killed the satisfaction.

He barely turned his head, and she saw just a faint flash of green as he glanced at her before releasing a frustrated sigh and turning his back to her more fully. "I'm not interested in the sales pitch, sweetheart," he said gruffly.

"Funny, 'cause I'm not interested in hearing what you're not interested in," Martha retorted, walking into the room and sitting on the bed. His back was still to her, but she could see more of his face now, and he looked a little taken aback. "I want you to talk to me, Dean. Whether you believe me or not I _know_ you, and this isn't like you. You don't give up."

Dean scoffed, his shoulders twitching upwards slightly. "You know better than any other human on the planet that I _do_ give up," he muttered.

The brokenness in his voice was almost too much for Martha to bear, and she had to resist the urge to cuff him in the back of the head, to bring him back to reality, out of this second Pit that he'd made for himself. She had to suppress the instincts she'd developed the first time she'd been here, where this sort of moroseness was met with joviality and jibes because ultimately, it was the only thing they had. She ached to hear Sam's voice calling his brother out on a chick-flick moment. She wanted to bring up that one time at Galaxis Bright, Dean knew the time, remember? But he wouldn't. So instead, she just laid herself out on the bed, on her stomach, her face next to Dean's. He glanced at her, confused, and scooted away from her just the smallest bit.

"I'm not gonna let you do this," she said, quietly, flatly. He turned to her, his expression guarded. "You always do this, you know. But not this time."

"What do I always do?" She could tell that he was aiming for _mocking_, but he missed by a mile and ended in _cautious_. Maybe even a bit fearful. She'd never imagined hearing that note in Dean's voice, not while he was talking to her.

"Push the people who care about you away," Martha said, and any anxiety in Dean's face fell away, replaced with annoyance. "I'm serious. You do it to everyone. You do it to Sam, you do it to Castiel, and I'm not gonna let you do it to the Doctor, too."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, turning around more fully to face her. She shook her head sadly, and he scowled. "The hell are you talking about. I've never _pushed_ Sam away."

"You do," Martha insisted. "And you do it for the same reason, every single bloody time. You see a single instance of the people in your life being less than perfect, in any way, and you turn them away because it's an _excuse_ to not have them around you, so you can _punish_ yourself for whatever the hell it is you think you've done, Dean. You don't think you deserve them so you make sure you don't have them. You do it to everyone. But not this time. Not to him. Not after what he's done for you, what he _will_ do for you."

A laugh tore its way out of Dean's throat, startling Martha with the raw, ragged sound of it. "What he's—" Dean began, then broke off, standing and pacing around the room. Martha sat up, wary. "What he's done for me," Dean echoed. "Right. I owe him for what he's done for me."

"Dean—" Martha tried, but quieted when Dean spun around and strode back up to the bed, glaring down at her. She met his gaze evenly, but didn't say anything else. If Dean wanted to talk, she wasn't going to stop him. God knows he wanted to talk rarely enough.

"You want to know that the son of a bitch _did_ for me?" Dean demanded. Martha bit her lip, but said nothing. "Do you—" Dean's voice broke, and he covered his face in his hands for a moment, rubbing it vigorously before his hands trailed up to his hair and caught in the short, tousled strands. Martha quickly looked away.

She'd only seen Dean get emotional like this a few times, before. And she always tried to give him his privacy about it.

"He came to me. In Hell."

Martha couldn't help but look back up at him, incredulous. Dean wasn't looking at her, but gazing dully into the distance. The sheen in his eyes was still there, but it was less than before. "He came to me and told me that...that I would get out. That I'd see Sammy again. That I'd see _him_ again." Something lit up in his eyes—not happiness, not relief, but recognition, and he turned his eyes to her. "He actually told me about you, come to think of it," he said. "He said I'd meet you. Martha."

He paused for a long, unbearable moment, and so Martha quietly offered, "He told you the truth, Dean. Here you are. Here _we_ are. You did get out."

"Yeah," Dean laughed, and the sound of it made Martha's eyes sting. "Yeah, he told the truth. It only took twenty goddamn years. Do you know what it's—no. Obviously, no, you don't. Can you _imagine_ what it's like, to be promised that you'll be saved, and then have to try to hold on day by day, with no end in sight? The hope, waiting every day for the sound of that damn blue box..." He trailed off, leaning heavily against the wall. "They don't really let you dream, in Hell. But sometimes I'd...I don't know, I guess hallucinate. And the few times that it went my way, that I didn't hallucinate something _worse_ than what was really happening to me, I'd see _him_. I'd see his friggin' box and I'd see him lean out of it and I'd see Alastair just _cowering_ away and the Doctor, he'd take me off the rack and take me into the TARDIS and—"

Martha had looked away again, but when Dean didn't start talking again after too long, she looked up and realized that he was crying. Silently, but his shoulders shook with the intensity of it. She tumbled off the bed in her haste, her still-aching foot catching in the sheets. She shook them off impatiently and ran up to Dean, throwing her arms around his neck, and felt him tense up beneath her weight. But she didn't let go, only held him more tightly, and guided him gently down to the floor. He eased into her grip, and let himself be led. They both knelt, Martha cradling Dean's head in her hand as he leaned into the crook of her neck.

She knew he'd gone through this; of course she did. When Martha had met Dean, he was already back, already beginning to heal. She never thought she'd have to see it, though. She'd been secretly grateful, in a cowardly way that she wasn't proud of, that she'd missed it.

But he'd been there for her through bad times, he'd protected her on the battlefield, he'd never given up on her. She owed him this. She owed him not flinching away from this.

"I only lasted ten years after that," Dean whispered into her neck, and she only breathed in response. "Then I said yes. You know, time can be re-written, he always says that. I just...thought it had."

"Ten years," Martha said. Dean nodded. "Dean, ten years. That's...remarkable. You idiot, that's more than anyone could have asked of you."

Dean pulled away, not roughly, but firmly, and leaned again against the wall. He did his best to force a smile, but it was wavering as he said, "I just wonder, you know? If I didn't think I was getting out...if I'd just been sure I'd be down there forever...if I would have given up."

Martha put both hands around his face, and guided his eyes to her. He obeyed listlessly. "Doesn't matter," she said, fiercely. Dean scoffed again, and she gritted her teeth. "Doesn't matter, Dean. It doesn't. You did what you did and you can't—you can't fix it. But whatever you feel about him, the Doctor didn't mean to hurt you, Dean. I know he didn't. I've heard the way he talks about you, like you and your brother are the two brightest shining stars in the universe. He...never told me, what happened between you. You were angry with him, the first time I met you. But...neither of you ever said a word."

Dean lowered his eyes, but didn't move to dislodge her hands. She took it as a good sign. "He told me not to say anything, the next time I saw him," he said softly. "I don't know why. But he said not to and...it seemed important." He met her eyes more firmly, and said, "You can't say anything, either."

Martha nodded. "All right," she said. "I won't if you don't want me to. I won't."

"Why the _hell_ am I talking to you about this?" Dean asked, and the question seemed rhetorical, but Martha moved her hands and positioned herself shoulder-to-shoulder (well, to be fair, shoulder-to-mid-arm) with him against the wall. "Freaking bawling like a little girl."

"Oi!" Martha said, nudging him in the arm. He winced a little, and she realized that it was the arm Castiel had marked. She pretended not to notice the wince. "Nothing wrong with girls." Dean made a face at her, but said nothing, opting instead to just lean his head back against the wall and close his eyes.

Martha let him rest for a moment, then said, quietly and without any weight to her voice, "So you think you can pull your head out of your arse long enough to help save the world, one more time?"

"What," Dean said, "since the Doctor can't?"

Despite the fact that his words hurt, Martha shrugged. "Sure. You got better plans for the week? Holing up in your room and crying?"

"Hey," Dean protested, but there was no heat behind it. He opened his eyes, not looking at anything in particular for a while, and then glancing down at her. She met his eyes with an open expression. He seemed to struggle for a moment, to find the right words, but eventually he managed, "You're a weird kid, Martha Jones."

Martha settled further back against the wall, and shrugged again. "Suppose it takes one to know one, Dean Winchester," she retorted. It earned her a quiet chuckle, but it was genuine—it was amusement, not pain, not self-deprecation. It brought a smile to her face.

The two of them sat there for a while, exhausted from the emotion, and listened to the creaks and groans of Bobby's house that were so familiar to both of them. The combination of the warmth of the room, the homey sounds, and Dean sitting next to her was wearing on Martha's resolve to stay awake, to talk to Dean, to convince him that her fight was his, too. That her side was his.

She felt her head bob, and pulled herself upright before she could fall onto his arm. She cracked her neck, rubbed her face, and pulled her knees up to her chest, feeling Dean's eyes on her as she did.

"You all right there?" he asked, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice. She looked up at him, and his eyebrows were raised, looking at her.

"Oh, yeah," she replied dismissively. "Never better."

His face said he wasn't sure he believed her, but all he said was, "Sure, Martha. I'll...do whatever it is you need me to do."

She was still for a moment, and said, "Are you sure, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, but there was a weight behind the gesture that Martha didn't like. "Hell," he said, and the use of the word was not unintentional, "I got a lot to atone for. How'm I gonna stay mad at the Doctor for just...trying to help? If I'm gonna start paying all that bad friggin' karma I've been storing up off, I better get going."

Martha leaned against the wall again. "Not good enough," she said simply.

Dean frowned. "What?"

"This isn't about paying back what you've done, and it isn't about atoning," she said. "This is about us, doing the job we do, to save the people we love. To save Sam, and the Doctor, and Jack, and my family. If that's not why you're doing it, I don't want you on board."

He stared at her, and began to laugh. "Well damn, Martha," he said, "you are something else. Okay. That's fine. I'll do it for Sammy. And for Jack, and for your family. And I'm...gonna do my best, about the Doctor."

Martha smiled. "That's all I can ask for," she said.

A faint rush of wind and the sound of wings rustling announced Castiel's arrival, although why he didn't take the stairs Martha wasn't sure. He looked a bit confused at the sight of the two of them on the floor, Dean's eyes red and blood-shot (and Martha's a bit so, too, if she was being honest). He tilted his head to the side, and said, "Is there a problem I should be aware of, Dean?"

Dean and Martha exchanged a glance, and Dean said, "Nope. No problem. We were about to come down to talk game plans."

Martha nodded her agreement and stood unsteadily, Dean spotting her until she was on her feet, then standing himself. Castiel looked unconvinced, but didn't argue with Dean. "Then you have agreed to help Martha in her plan to take down Harold Saxon?" Castiel asked.

Dean looked thoughtful for a bit, then nodded. "Don't have anything better to do for the weekend," he said lightly.

Martha laughed as she led them down the stairs, followed by a satisfied Dean and a puzzled angel.


	11. Chapter Ten: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: I really don't have much to say this time other than thanks for all the feedback! I've really been appreciating it. School's getting pretty nuts lately, so I'm thinking about posting a poll on my profile to see what story I ought to write next, as it might be the last for a little while since I'll be student teaching in the spring. Keep an eye out for that. And in the meantime, allons-y!

* * *

Dean was keeping it together pretty well, he thought, all things considered.

At least, he was now that they'd left the room. He could just kick himself for letting himself get out of control, and in front of Martha no less, who even if she swore up and down she was his bestie in the future, he didn't know at all.

He walked downstairs with Martha and Castiel, but once at the landing he touched Castiel's shoulder, nodding down the hall while Martha turned and went into the library, evidently not noticing that her companions were not following her.

Dean led Castiel down by the kitchen, and when he stopped, the angel asked (keeping his voice quiet, which Dean appreciated—and realized was a feat of implicit learning, for Castiel), "What is it, Dean?"

Dean glanced down the hall, running a hand through his hair, and murmured, "You sure that girl's on the up-and-up, Cas? Nothing...like, demonic, or maybe like, I don't know, psychic or something about her? She's really original-recipe human?"

There was no answer for a moment, and when he looked back to Castiel, the angel was regarding him with something that if Dean hadn't known better he would have read as amusement. Very faint amusement. But amusement nevertheless. "This has to do with the emotional state in which I found the two of you," Castiel said, and it wasn't a question.

"No," Dean lied. Castiel's expression didn't change, and Dean caved instantly with an overwhelming sense of shame about it. (He never used to do that. Hell, he'd grown up with Sammy, King of the Puppy Eyes and the Bitch Face, and he didn't cave that fast for _him_.) "Okay, so maybe. But what else could it be? If she was just human I wouldn't have...gotten all chick-flick like that. She did something to me, didn't she? What did she do to me?"

The impression of amusement only strengthened, although Castiel's face barely moved. He sounded very, almost insultingly patient as he said, "What she did was talk to you, Dean. I don't know why you are getting upset about this. I was under the impression that humans did communicate when under stress."

"Not this human," Dean hissed, jerking his thumb to his chest in emphasis. Castiel watched the gesture with a mild interest. "I don't, Cas, I really don't. It always pissed Sammy off that I didn't do the whole sharing-is-caring thing. So why am I getting all _dear diary_ with this chick I don't even know?"

Castiel spread his hands, shaking his head. "Dean, I don't know. Human social behavior is not my...my specialty, as it were. But perhaps the simplest reason is the right one: perhaps you needed to speak to someone, and Martha was available and willing to listen."

Dean scowled, and was about to answer back when Martha poked her head out of the library, a confused frown on her face. "Are you boys going to stand out there all day, or are we going to talk about the plan?" she asked, and it was only halfway as sarcastic as the words suggested.

But what weirded Dean out the most was that she had referred to him-and more importantly, Castiel—as _boys_.

So he turned the caustic retort he was about to hit Castiel with to Martha, but was again cut off when Castiel said, "We will be there shortly, Martha."

And for a moment Dean was kind of glad he hadn't had the chance to say something ugly, because while Cas's tone hadn't been anything further along the nice spectrum than _civil_, it lit something up in Martha's face. She didn't give more than a tweak of her lips, but her eyes softened, and her posture relaxed a little. "Right," she said. "Bobby and I'll be waiting." She ducked back into the library, and Dean could hear Bobby's voice questioning her, but wasn't able to make out his words.

"As to your original question," Castiel said quietly, and Dean turned back to him, "Martha Jones is indeed human. She does have an unusual accumulation of artron energy for a human, but if she is an associate of the Doctor, that is understandable."

Dean startled, staring at Castiel. "Wait, how the hell do _you_ know the Doctor?" he demanded. Then a thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes. "Did you read my mind? Because that is _not_ cool."

Again with the amusement, and Dean was starting to get tired of it, and glowered at Castiel as he replied, "I did not have to read your mind, Dean. There are those, other than you and your brother, who have met the Doctor in the course of his centuries-long existence." A darkness passed over Castiel's expression, so briefly that Dean wasn't sure he had really seen it, and the angel added, "I myself met him over two decades ago, for a very short while. But the Host is aware of the Time War, and the fall of Gallifrey, and the role of the Doctor in those events. We are also aware of his work on Earth."

"Yeah?" Dean challenged. "So it's all kosher with you that some alien is stepping on your collective angelic toes?"

Castiel's eyes grew distant in what Dean was starting to think of as his _processing_ face, like he was trying to translate Dean's always-perplexing words into something that made sense. "Stepping on our—" Castiel began.

Dean shook his head. "Like, doing your job. Saving the earth and whatever. It doesn't bother you that the Doc doesn't think you're doing a good enough job, and has to butt in and do it himself? You don't have an issue with that?"

Castiel stilled for a moment, studying Dean with an unreadable expression. It wasn't one of his usual set, and it was unsettling. "You harbor a great deal of anger towards a being who holds you in such high esteem," the angel said after a too-long moment.

Dean grunted something that was supposed to be sarcasm but didn't technically have any words attached to it, and thus fell somewhat short in that regard. "Sometimes _high esteem_," Dean finally muttered, air-quoting around Castiel's words sarcastically, "isn't enough when you end up screwing everything up anyway."

There was another silence, and Dean looked back up to meet the angel's eyes, which he found boring into him. He opened his mouth to say something, when Castiel said, "I have to confess my confusion. Are you speaking about the Doctor, or yourself?"

It was enough to stun Dean speechless, until shock turned into anger and he managed to mutter, "I don't have to listen to this," and stalked off towards the library.

He almost fell on his ass when Castiel appeared directly in front of him, cutting off his escape route, but he caught himself against the wall and tried to steady his racing heart. "Damn it, Cas!"

"This is not the world I intended to bring you back into," Castiel said, his voice very quiet, very firm, and angrier than Dean would have preferred to hear it, so he listened very closely as the angel continued. "You were saved from Hell for a purpose, Dean, and that purpose cannot be fulfilled with matters as they are, with Earth separated from Heaven and Hell. Therefore, you and I must set things right here, and Martha Jones seems to know how to do that. I will not allow your petty showboating to get in the way of fulfilling your God-given destiny. So if your _issues—_" and no shit right there the angel mimicked Dean's air quotes with a totally straight face "—with the Doctor are going to become an obstacle to getting this job done, then yes, I will deal with it and yes, you _will_ listen to me."

Dean inhaled unsteadily, and murmured, "You know what happened with him. In. Or, down there."

The anger in Castiel's eyes faded somewhat, and he said, "Yes, Dean. I know."

"I was holding on until then," Dean whispered.

Something flashed across Castiel's face—something that Dean couldn't pin down, since it wasn't confusion, irritation, or anger—but it looked alarmingly like grief. It only clouded his eyes for a moment, and he said, "There is a purpose, Dean, for all that happens. Your friend—for he is your friend, whether you believe it or not—did not intend to cause you suffering. And I know that I have not been in your acquaintance long, but I find it hard to believe that you would allow a viable plan to rescue your brother to come undone due to a grudge against someone else. Am I incorrect?"

Dean shook his head. "No," he admitted. "No. I'm gonna do whatever it takes to get Sammy back." His lips twisted into a wry grin as he added, "The Doctor better be damn glad he's on the same ship as Sam."

Castiel said nothing, but took a step towards the library before Dean put a tentative hand on his arm. The angel stopped immediately, glancing at the hand and then at Dean expectantly. "And I'm—I'm sorry," Dean said, grudgingly. Castiel frowned, and Dean clarified: "For blowing up on you earlier."

"Blowing up on—"

"For getting upset," Dean corrected hastily, feeling an almost equal-parts combination of amusement and irritation at the angel's persistent inability to recognize metaphor. Although the look of subdued alarm in Castiel's eyes when he'd said _blowing up_ was kind of funny. "Look, man, I owe you, okay? Weren't for you, I'd still be there. You know."

"I do," Castiel said, and Dean wasn't sure if it was the angel being overly literal again or if he was actually sparing Dean the pain of having to name the place of his imprisonment. Either way, he appreciated it, regardless of motivation.

"So I guess I'm saying I'll try to cool it," he concluded hastily.

Castiel gave him another one of those tilted-head narrowed-eyes glances, and for just a second Dean was ready to clarify the meaning of the idiom _cool it_, but then the angel said, "Thank you, Dean."

Dean smiled uncomfortably, and Martha leaned out of the library again. "Daylight's wasting," she complained, "and I really can't waste much more of it. I should've been gone hours ago."

Dean wanted to be irritated, and was for a second, but then Martha's words hit him. "Wait, gone?" he said, and walked into the room with her, knowing without hearing that Castiel followed him in.

Martha stepped aside to let the two of them enter, then settled on the sofa with her legs crossed under her. She looked, as usual, way too comfortable for this to be her first time on the couch. "Gone," she agreed, and Bobby gave Dean a sour look that promised interrogation later as the younger Hunter sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Martha. Bobby sat behind his desk, and Castiel stood by the door, observing the three humans with equanimity.

"Okay," Dean said, with what he thought was remarkable patience, "you wanna explain what you mean, gone?"

Martha sighed, a long-suffering sound, and bent one leg up to rest her elbow on. "This isn't my last stop," she said, "not by any means. You remember when I got here, I said I came from London via Jakarta, Kiev, and Tokyo."

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Well, I meant it," she replied. "I've been walking all over the Earth, telling my story. Well. _His_ story."

Dean didn't flinch, didn't move, but he saw Castiel's eyes flick over to him, and he met them. Evidently whatever the angel saw in his face was good enough, because Castiel nodded in approval, and Dean wasn't going to talk about the flare of pride that warmed his chest with that nod. Because what did it matter what anybody thought of him? Dean knew who he was.

(There was a not insignificant part of Dean's mind that was laughing at him for thinking that, for thinking that there was any part of Dean's self-esteem that wasn't dictated by other people, and that if he was going to let anybody tell him how to feel about himself, might as well be an angel of the Lord, right?)

"The Master rose to power in May," Martha was saying when Dean shook himself out of his thoughts, and from the kind of odd look on her face he was guessing she noticed the moment he'd just had with Castiel, and he was definitely not going to refer to it as a _moment_ again. "We'd met him, me and the Doctor and Jack, at the end of the universe—it's a really long story, just trust me on that one—and he managed to steal the TARDIS and bring himself back to, I think, 2005. He established himself as a British politician called Harold Saxon and fabricated a whole life story for himself. He even has a wife, Lucy Cole. It eventually led to his getting elected as prime minister, and that was when the Doctor got us back here—just in time to see him elected."

"Perfect timing, as usual," Dean quipped, but he was able to keep most of the heat out of his voice. Martha's wry expression told him he wasn't too vitriolic, and her snort told him she didn't think he was wrong.

"Well, basically, he got elected and killed his cabinet almost immediately. He retreated to the Valiant, killed the American president, took the Doctor and Jack and my family, and things went...shall we say, downhill from there." Martha's voice was crisp and cool, reciting the events from what was doubtless the worst four months of her life as though she was reading a recipe, but Dean saw the way her jaw set, the way her hands clenched into fists. "I managed to escape, using Jack's vortex manipulator. But before I got out, the Doctor explained something to me."

She looked over to Bobby, and said, "Do you have a cell phone, Bobby?"

He frowned, but reached into the pocket of his jacket and fished around, pulling out a blocky phone and showing it to her. She gestured for him to pass it to her, and Bobby handed the phone to Dean, who passed it to Martha. She pressed a button and the screen came on, and she nodded, her mouth in a grim line. "That's what I thought," she said. "Archangel Mobile."

Dean shared a surprised glance with Castiel, whose brow furrowed, but otherwise didn't react. Martha caught the glance and made a choked sound that Dean was pretty sure was an aborted laugh. "Not like that," she said. "It's...a weird coincidence. But every phone on the planet is connected to this network. The Master invented it. And it's not just connecting phones. It's a psychic network, creating a gobal consciousness, letting the Master project a subtle mind control all across the world. It's keeping people scared."

Bobby coughed, and Dean glanced over at him, seeing that the older Hunter's face was pale, his eyes wide. "Um," he said, "just pop the battery out of that for me, Martha. Thanks." Martha grinned, and did so. Noticing Dean's eyes on him, Bobby pulled a tougher face and added, "Rufus or somebody needs me, they can get me on the land line. Any of them."

Dean silently recognized his gratitude that Rufus was still alive, after all this. But really, if he was being honest, it didn't surprise him that of anybody in the world Bobby and Rufus would have managed to make it in a world gone to shit.

Another thought occurred to Dean, though, and it made him straighten off of the couch. "Archangel Network," he said, and Martha nodded, frowning. "When I called Sammy's phone, it said his ARC mobile was disconnected."

"Yeah, Dean," Martha said slowly, as though worried Dean was going to freak out, "I said, _everybody_ was connected to the network. Sam probably didn't get to keep his phone in the labor camp, which is why it was disconnected. It's not like the Master needs help keeping people scared, there."

"Could you—" Dean started, then broke off. Martha fell silent, waiting, and Dean tried again: "Could you not call him that? It's just...it sounds wrong."

"Wh—you want me to call him Saxon?" Martha asked, and Dean nodded, feeling foolish but nonetheless _right_. Martha shrugged. "Sure. It's not his name, but sure."

"What, his name is _Master_?" Dean snapped.

"As much as the Doctor's is _Doctor_," Martha retorted, and they glared at each other for just a moment before Martha recovered. "I'll call him Saxon if it makes you feel better, Dean. I don't mind. It's just...I'm used to saying the Master, because it's how everyone knows him, out there. When I talk to them."

"Perhaps," Castiel interrupted gently, "we should return to Martha's discussion of her plan, and the backstory regarding it, rather than diverging into an argument of semantics."

Dean glared at Castiel, feeling strangely reprimanded by the angel's remarks, but Martha nodded. "So Archangel is a global psychic network that every human on the planet is connected to. Right now the Ma—Saxon is using it against us, but the thing is that what it does is create a network. All the psychic energy on the planet is focused on that network, every single thought that every single human has. The power of it all can be collected by Archangel. Right now, the direction of flow is Saxon to us, right? He's using his connection to the network to project fear and submission. But—"

"The connection goes both ways," Castiel said, and Martha quieted, a smile creeping onto her face that the word _savage_ wasn't altogether inappropriate to describe. "That is...truly brilliant. The Doctor plans to reverse the flow the network to overload Saxon's mind, to destroy him."

Martha held up a finger, and Castiel frowned. "Almost," she said. "But the Doctor doesn't do killing, not when he can help it. And he can help it this time."

"Then what?" Castiel asked, sounded, if Dean wasn't imagining it, a little disappointed that he was incorrect.

Martha lowered her voice to just above a whisper, and said, "The Doctor's tapping into the network, a little every day. He's building up a connection that'll let him link in with all that psychic energy, all that power. All we have to do is give it to him, all at once, when he needs it."

Dean felt a jolt go through him when he heard the plan, and when it resided it coalesced into a little bit of nausea. "So the plan is to juice up the Doctor with the psychic energy of an entire planet and...what? Let him loose on Saxon?"

Martha's face fell, and she looked away, her lips pressed together in frustration. "Dean, come on. Maybe you think you're being sneaky, but I know what this is about. You have to trust him with this. There's no other way; there's not. Saxon's got the TARDIS, he's got the Toclaphane, he's got the Doctor. This is our best shot. It's our _only_ shot. At saving the world and at saving our families, do you understand?"

Dean folded his arms, not giving in, but asked, "So what does he want _us_ to do?"

Martha looked for a minute like she wasn't going to let it go, but sighed and said, "I've been going around the country telling people about the Doctor, about all the times he's saved us, about how he can save us this time. And that when the time comes, everyone needs to think of him. Just think of him, all at once, and know that he's going to fix this."

The incredulous laugh that erupted from Dean wasn't meant to get out, but he couldn't help it. It was too ridiculous. "Seriously?" he cackled, as Martha glared a death-glare at him. "We're gonna, what, clap real hard for Tinkerbell?"

"We're giving the Doctor permission to access our psychic energy, and focusing it in a way that he can use," Martha snapped. "Stop being stupid. This isn't—it's not a joke, Dean! God, can't you be serious for five minutes?"

"You gotta admit, it sounds stupid," Dean said.

Martha sat on the couch for a long moment, everything about her posture extremely tense. Suddenly, like a spring uncoiling, she bolted up from the couch, grabbed her boots and shoved them on. "Fine," she muttered. "Just _fine_, Dean. If you don't want to help save the world, then by all means just hole up here and try to _will_ your brother back to you. Maybe if you wish hard enough, you'll just wake up one morning, and none of this will have happened! Good luck with that, because it hasn't worked out so _bloody_ well for me."

She stormed across the room, and Dean, beset on both sides by glares from Bobby and Castiel, scrambled off the couch and grabbed her arm. She shook him off, spinning around to scowl at him. "Don't," she snapped.

"Martha, come on," Dean began.

"No, Dean, _you_ come on," she said. "I don't have time for this. If you're not going to help, then I have to make double time for the rest of the year. Because I've only got a year. All this, the labor camps, the rockets, the Toclaphane, all of it, it's a year-long plan. Four months are gone. I have eight months to tell every living soul on the planet the story that's going to save the world, and if you're not gonna back me up, then I have to go."

Dean shut his eyes, bracing himself, and said, "Do you really believe this plan's gonna work, Martha?"

She hesitated, and his heart sank. He opened his eyes, and she'd wrapped her arms around herself, looking over his shoulder. "I have to," she whispered.

It would have to be enough. "Okay," Dean said. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to grab your things, put on your walking boots, and come with me," Martha said. "And whether or not you believe in the Doctor, you better damn well _pretend_ you do, because I need you to help me tell his story. To your whole country."

"You need me to be a door-to-door Doctor missionary," Dean said.

Martha's lips quirked into a smile. "In a manner of speaking," she said. "So grab your bike, mission boy. Because we've got eight months to storytell the world out of oblivion."


	12. Chapter Eleven: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: Man, Sam is a lot easier to write than Dean and Martha. Those two are giving me fits. Thanks for all the lovely feedback on the last chapter, and let me know what you think of this one! We're starting to go places!

Edited to add: As the other chapter heavily referenced "What Power", if you haven't read "A Mission Before Dying", at least chapter one of it, I'd recommend that before reading this one!

* * *

It had been two days, just over forty-eight hours, since that dinner.

Two days, and practically all Sam had been able to think about was an endless loop of the same words in his mind, over and over.

_Dean is alive._

His brother was alive and out of Hell. His brother was all right. His brother was back on Earth, potentially, if not effectively, within his reach.

He was going to hear Dean's voice again. He was going to ride with his brother in the Impala again. It was going to be all right. After all these months, it was going to be all right.

Saxon promised.

But the other thought that was stuck in Sam's mind wasn't quite so pleasant, quite so comforting. And it was less a thought than a feeling—less a feeling than a collection of feelings, building in intensity with each passing hour.

Sam _hurt_.

He could feel Ruby's blood draining from his system, could feel himself sweating out whatever it was in the substance that he needed. (Needed. Pathetic. What the hell was wrong with him? Sam Winchester wasn't a junkie. Except for the part where he was.) He knew it was going to get bad, and it was going to get bad soon. The aching was getting to the point where he couldn't ignore it, no matter how hard he gritted his teeth, no matter how much he tried to focus on _Dean is alive Dean is alive Dean is alive_. No matter how much he tried to turn all his thought to _what am I going to tell Saxon_. Because he still hadn't given the Time Lord an answer yet. He still hadn't agreed to join him; but he hadn't told him to piss off, either. He had allowed himself to be wined and dined, and then demurred every night, saying he needed more time to think.

Saxon was getting impatient, Sam could tell, but while the Time Lord might think he was being coy or trying to get a better deal or plotting something, he wasn't, he just really didn't know what to do. He didn't know what it would mean, if he were to join up with Saxon. Would it make it easier for Saxon to take over the world? Or would it just mean that when it inevitably happened, Sam could keep his family safe? He couldn't imagine he'd be a lot of help. A broken-down blood addict, no powers, no nothing. He figured that whatever Saxon was going to do, he was going to do with or without Sam's help. So what was the harm in joining him? What was the harm in trying to make sure that Dean didn't get hurt because of him, _again_? Maybe he could even stop Saxon from hurting Jack and the Doctor any further.

But something kept him from saying yes. He couldn't articulate it, couldn't explain it, but there was something in him saying _no, Samuel, it's the wrong choice, you're stronger than that; he's manipulating you._

Apparently his conscience spoke in the Doctor's voice.

And to be fair, there wasn't a single part of him that was one hundred percent comfortable with the idea of joining Saxon. Any way he looked at it, it was an unpleasant but necessary compromise at the absolute best. A deal with the devil, if he decided to phrase it in the way that made him most want to vomit. And after all the grief he'd given Dean for his crossroads deal, how was he going to sit up here on this ship and make one himself? Just because _his_ demon was a little more honest about his extraterrestrial origins, because he broached the issue politely over dinner and drinks, because it didn't require a ritual, was it better? Was it different, more legitimate?

Dean would kill him if he even knew Sam was contemplating it, was entertaining the idea even for a moment. _We don't make deals with demons_. Sam could practically hear Dean saying the words. Well, everybody _else_ did, but not Sammy, not precious, untouchable Sammy. Sammy was the one you threw your life away for. He didn't get to throw it back. That was just a bridge too far.

A wave of pain wracked his body, and he arched against the bed, as though his spine were trying to escape it, as though it were a thing that could be fled. He gritted his teeth against it, his fingers clenching and his nails catching on the rivets of the metal floor, shutting his eyes tight as white flashed behind his lids and his world exploded into nothing but inescapable agony.

It didn't last long. A few seconds, maybe. A few seconds until the wave passed, until he could breathe again, until his body was his own. But those few seconds were eternity.

He scowled even as the thought occurred to him, because whatever withdrawal symptoms he was experiencing, his brother had _actually_ volunteered himself for an eternity of agony, all for him, and now Sam was sitting pretty on the airship owned by the captor of the Earth and he couldn't even find the guts to tell him to shove his _come to the dark side_ act because Sam Winchester didn't betray his own people.

And then all higher-order thought was interrupted, briefly, while Sam scrabbled for the small trash can in his quarters and was violently ill.

Once the heaving had subsided, Sam decided that sitting was far too much effort, and instead lay prostrate on the ground, his flushed cheek pressed against the cool metal of the floor. He was going to start hallucinating any minute now, he knew it. The nausea always came about an hour, two hours before the hallucinations. He might have a little longer because he and Ruby had gotten a little carried away the last time she'd dosed him, the night before he was taken to the Valiant, which was why he'd lasted this long without going through the worst symptoms yet. At least he'd held out through dinner, although he knew he'd looked pale, knew his hands had trembled. Knew he'd had a hard time making good eye contact with Saxon; knew he'd hesitated a moment too long, processing the Time Lord's words as though through molasses, before responding. He knew Saxon knew something was wrong.

He just hoped he didn't know _what_.

Sam hauled himself onto his bed—his cot, really—and forced himself to sit up, to stretch the aching muscles of his back. He pressed his back against the wall and sat cross-legged, holding his hands out in front of him. They trembled—no, trembled was a kind word. They _shook_. So Sam took a deep breath, squared his shoulders (or did the best he could), and glared at his hands.

He focused all of his energy, all of his intent, on _not shaking_. He wasn't surprised when it didn't work; the times in the camp that he and Ruby had been separated, he'd had to learn to do this to calm himself, to keep his hands steady enough to work without accidentally blowing up the camp. (Sam didn't know for a fact that he was dealing with anything explosive, but in the camp, he lived by the philosophy that he was better safe than sorry.) He knew it never worked immediately. The craving was too strong, too visceral, to be easily overpowered.

He paced his breathing. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Tried to pretend there was nothing to do but breathe, nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, but breathing. Out, two, three, four.

He lost himself in the breathing, and for just a little while, he didn't hurt. For just a little while, Sam Winchester wasn't starving for demon blood, he wasn't trapped on a ship with the creature that wanted to end the world, he wasn't grieving his brother's death or trying vainly to wrap his head around his resurrection. Sam Winchester was just breath. Out, two, three, four.

And then the door slammed open, Sam jumped, and _everything hurt_.

To be fair, the door didn't really slam open, Sam realized as he tried to calm his racing heart. Tish had opened it pretty quietly, but after so long (_how long?_ Sam wondered) of absolute quiet, save the distant humming of the engines (_where Jack could be in the process of dying_, Sam thought), even the smallest noise sounded like a jackhammer. And now she hung by the door, startled by his extreme reaction to her entrance, holding an opaque cup and watching him with wide eyes.

"Tish," Sam gasped, steadying his breathing. Her surprise expression fell away, and she walked over to him. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I was...meditating, I guess. Or something. Sorry."

"It's all right," Tish said quietly, handing him the cup without ceremony. "Here. This is from the Master. Said he thought you might need it."

Sam took the cup, and knew immediately what was in it. It was disguised in some other liquid, possibly so as not to alarm Tish or cause any suspicion among anyone else on the ship, but Sam knew what it was, and it made the hurting even worse.

Tish wasn't leaving. Usually she just left, quickly, not making eye contact and not saying any words she wasn't ordered to say. But this time she hovered by his bed, watching him—not _quite_ steady eye contact, but much closer than usual. He tilted his head to try to meet her eyes, and smiled a little. A vague invitation, or permission, or something.

At this point, anything for a little bit of human contact. Anything for a distraction.

She didn't say anything, still, her features tight and her lips pressed together into a thin line, her hands nervously worrying her apron. Her eyes flicked from his to the wall to anything else that wasn't him, then, finally, back to his. When they landed back on him, he said, softly as though afraid to startle her, "You okay, Tish?"

Tish stared at him for a moment, her eyes too wide, too fearful, and then she took the final few steps up to him and knelt.

For a second, just one, awful, hubris-filled second, he was really scared that the Master had been telling people something about him...something about his empire, something that seemed entirely too much like being Azazel's boy-king. He was about to tell Tish to get up, to stammer something humble and embarrassed, when she gripped his arm with cool, strong fingers, and pulled him down. The contact, the quick movement, it hurt like hell, but Sam managed to suppress the whimper that wanted to rise out of his throat. Managed to suppress the whimper that thinking about the pain brought because thinking about the pain made him think about the cup that he held in his hand made him think about the relief it contained made him think about the way it burned burned burned as it went down but how it soothed away every ache and every sting once he was done how it made him hang on a little bit longer and...

"Have you seen my sister?" she breathed, and Sam, startled back to reality, realized that she was just getting close to him, to be able to speak as quietly as possible, because Saxon was listening everywhere.

Pride goeth before the fall, he thought grimly and not without shame.

"Your—" he said, trailing off.

Tish seemed irritated by his response, and whispered, "Martha Jones. Martha Jones is my sister. Have you seen her? Back on Earth?"

Sam hesitated, then shook his head. Tish's face fell, but she didn't look surprised. "I'm sorry," he whispered in response. "But I was in a labor camp since June, in the middle of South Dakota. I didn't see much of anybody other than the other workers. But I heard about her."

That brought Tish's eyes back up to his, and there was a light in them he hadn't seen these last few days. She'd seemed so broken, so dead. But maybe it was just an act, because a smile crept onto her face. "Yeah?" she breathed. "You heard about my sister?"

"Everybody has," Sam replied, and Tish nodded, pleased. "Everybody knows that if anybody's going to save us, it's Martha Jones."

Tish smiled wider. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, it will be." She glanced down at the cup in Sam's hands, and her brow furrowed, and Sam was really worried that she was going to ask about it, but evidently she hadn't gotten that far from the taciturn young woman Sam had met before, and instead just stood up.

"Good luck," she mouthed, and he smiled back his thanks, his fingers clenching around the cup as he waited for her to leave.

The heel of her foot seemed to take forever in passing the door frame; the latch seemed to take even longer in catching once she'd closed the door.

And yet, despite how desperate he'd been to see her go, to get to the task at hand (_stop hurting_), he stared down at the cup in his hands as though he wasn't sure quite what to do with it.

He didn't want to, for some reason. There was something in him just screaming not to do it, not to give in, to just ride out the withdrawal and it would be better afterwards, there wouldn't be more hurting. It would subside and stay gone. If he drank it, it would subside and return, over and over until he either made the brave choice or died before he could do so.

On the other hand, how was he supposed to help Dean if he was too weak to—

The half-complete thought was enough justification, and Sam sucked down the contents of the cup like a dying man in the desert.

He put the empty cup on the floor with hands that trembled for an entirely different reason than before.

Sam stretched out on the bed, hands palm-down on top of the thin blanket at his sides, and closed his eyes. In some ways, this was the best part. Because nothing in the world felt better than the cessation of pain.

He took stock of his body, of the aches that were leaving his limbs, of the churning nausea that was fading from his stomach, the splitting headache that seemed to drain out through his ears, and the tightness in his chest that released him as the pain went away. That was always the most amazing part, to him: how he never really realized how constricted his chest was, how impaired his breathing was, until the pain began to lessen and his full faculties returned.

His toes uncurled. His brow smoothed. His shoulders released their tension and his back unclenched. He took in a deep breath of the ship's stale air, releasing it without any burning in his lungs.

He smiled as he realized he could no longer hear the throbbing of blood vessels in his ears. Now all he could hear was the distant hum of the engines.

And a murmuring.

Sam opened his eyes, sitting up abruptly, his eyes darting around the room in panic. But there was no one there.

_...muel..._

Sam spun around, but there was nothing but the wall almost directly behind him.

_...an't get...need to lis...please tr..._

Sam gripped his head with stiff fingers and couldn't suppress the groan that wrenched its way out of his throat. He should have known that it was too good to be true. First, how on earth would Saxon have known about his addiction? The only way he could have found out was if Ruby had told him, but Ruby was hidden in the camp. Even his supervisors didn't know that he and Ruby were connected. There was no way Saxon would.

And even if he'd known, how would he have gotten hold of demon blood? Ruby had told him that the rest of her kind had fled the planet, gone into hiding in Hell. She was the only one left on Earth, as far as she knew, and he knew it wasn't hers. He didn't know how, but he knew. It didn't _feel_ like Ruby's.

So if it was impossible...if Saxon couldn't know, if he couldn't have gotten the blood...if Sam was hearing voices, then the solution was obvious.

The hallucinations had begun.

So Sam settled himself with his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and readied himself to ignore what his senses were telling him for as long as he could.

_...ittle insulted...amuel, if we're being hon..._

No. It wasn't real. Sam screwed his eyes shut even tighter.

_...n't have time for this just now, so if you could j..._

Sam started to hum the opening chords to "Smoke on the Water", like he used to do with Dean when he got scared as a kid.

_...eed you to...ou're the only one who ca..._

Sam clapped his hands over his ears, the humming becoming a panicked keening in the back of his throat.

_Samuel?_

"No," Sam whispered, "no, no, no."

_Samuel. Can you hear me?_

Sam tried humming again.

_Samuel, it's the Doctor. You're not going crazy. I need you to answer if you can hear me. I could feel the connection clear but I need to know that you can hear me. It's important, Samuel, please._

Sam knew better than to interact with his hallucinations. He really, really did. But it sounded _so much_ like the Doctor. That quick, clipped cadence like he was having a hard time slowing his thoughts down enough to articulate, the way he managed to sound soothing and urgent at the same time.

_Samuel?_

Sam shrank into the corner of the bed, and thought miserably, _what could it hurt?_

_Samuel! There you are! Has he hurt you? Are you all right?_

Sam winced as he answered. _I'm all right._ He hesitated. _Are you?_

There was no answer for a moment, and when it did come, he heard an undertone of something very weary in the Doctor's voice. _I'll be fine, Samuel. But you...you have to be careful. I know you probably had no choice but to drink what the Master sent you, but...you're more vulnerable, now. Do you know what it was that he gave you?_

And suddenly Sam realized that the Doctor didn't know, yet. About the blood. About any of it.

"It's your life, Samuel. And I'm in the wrong order," the Doctor had said, right before all hell broke loose on Earth. In that filthy motel room with Ruby crouched by the wall, the Doctor staggering in and supporting himself against the wall like he weighed too much for his legs to bear, all disappointment and sadness and cryptic statements.

In the wrong order. This Doctor was younger than that Doctor; it hadn't happened yet, for him.

So he didn't find out yet.

So Sam couldn't tell him.

_N-no, Doctor_, Sam lied. _What was it?_

The voice that spoke back to him was so full of grief that Sam almost just confessed the whole thing, told him that he knew, that it was his fault, not the Doctor's, but he couldn't, so he just listened as the Doctor said, _I'm so sorry, Samuel. I've done it again. He's...given you my blood. He wants your mind psychically open, wants you as powerful as you can be, to help him._

_Can he hear me?_ Sam asked, panicked.

_No, no, Samuel. This connection is just you and me. He'd have to have physical contact with you to be able to enter your mind._

There was a pause, and Sam couldn't find the words to say, so there was silence until the Doctor asked, _What did he offer you?_

Here, at least, Sam could tell the truth. _He brought Dean back. He brought Dean back from Hell, Doctor._

More silence.

_I saw him, Doctor. I saw Dean. Where we buried him. He couldn't have possibly—Saxon couldn't have possibly known where we'd buried him. But Dean was out, alive. He brought him back._

_No, he didn't_.

Flat, absolute. _Dean's alive, Doctor._

_Yes, he is, Samuel. Your brother is alive._

Sam hesitated. _Saxon said—_

_Saxon said he brought him back, and he's back. Correlation does not prove causation, Samuel, you ought to know that._

The chiding note in the Doctor's voice rubbed Sam the wrong way, but he said nothing.

_He's manipulating you, Samuel. I've been shouting for you, trying to tell you, but you couldn't hear me until now_.

Well. Mostly.

_You have to believe me, Samuel, please. It wasn't Saxon who brought your brother back. It—_

The door opened again, much more of an actual _slam_ this time, and Saxon stood in the doorway, his sudden presence blocking out all other thought in Sam's head—including the Doctor. He jolted straight on the bed, and stared, wide-eyed, at Saxon's smug grin.

"Mister Winchester," he said smoothly, and held out a hand in invitation. "Join me for a walk, now that, I hope, you're feeling better?"

Sam really had no choice but to follow him, although his limbs were still trembling and his head was pounding with too many voices.

And there was a little part of him, as he walked out of the room with Saxon, that hoped this whole damn mess was just a particularly vivid hallucination.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Martha Jones

Author's Note: Okay guys so this is like practically unedited, so if it's terrible please let me know. I wanted to get something up tonight but like I said, Martha and Dean are just giving me _fits_.

I feel like this story is lacking something altogether, and I'm not sure what, so at this juncture any and all feedback is especially appreciated. What's working, what's not working, what you'd like to see more of...there are gaps in my planning right now so if you have a suggestion, it might find its way into the narrative!

In the meantime, thanks for all your feedback so far, and enjoy.

* * *

Martha didn't hear Castiel come in, but she supposed she never did.

She had been sitting in the library, checking her vortex manipulator. She was carefully stripping it down and examining it, making sure there wasn't any damage—anything that she could see, at least. She didn't really understand the technology, but she was starting to know what it looked like when it was likely to make her sick when she jumped. And she knew enough about this kind of tech, from the Doctor, to know what water damage looked like, a couple of things to do to fix that or physical damage. She didn't have spare parts for it, but she could engineer something similar enough. She'd had to already, once or twice.

And this time, if she had to jump, she might have to do it with company, and she wanted to make sure that the vortex manipulator was in as good shape as possible, just in case.

She'd already strapped her boots on, pulled her hair back tight like she kept it when she was on the move, and checked the rest of her meagre gear. There wasn't much to do, in preparation. Dean was taking a while, but he had a right to. He was heading out for the first time, and he had a very difficult good-bye to say, and she understood why he was putting it off. She didn't begrudge him a few hours.

They didn't have a lot of hours left, but she could spare a couple.

So she was sitting cross-legged on the ground, stripping and re-assembling the vortex manipulator for no real reason anymore, just spinning the piece of tech in her hands, touching it with gentle fingers because it was the only thing she had of Jack or the Doctor to hold on to, and she really shouldn't think like that, because she was going to get all _maudlin_ and Martha Jones, savior of the Earth, storyteller for the Doctor, she didn't cry.

She used to cry. She used to cry pretty easily. She remembered lots of tears, when she'd started traveling with the Doctor. But lately, there just wasn't anything left. She'd run out of tears. She'd cried them all already. Or at least, she thought she had, until she sat with Dean Winchester in the guest bedroom and listened to him break in front of her.

She hadn't actually shed a tear. She wasn't sure she was capable, anymore. But she'd come far, far closer than she had in a long time.

"Martha."

She didn't jump, but her heart rate did pick up a bit at his voice.

"Hey, Cas," she murmured, and then quickly added, "-tiel. Hey, ah, Castiel."

He didn't say anything, so she turned around and looked at him. He had an odd look on his face, a little bit surprised and a little bit pensive, like he'd just found a piece to a puzzle he'd been trying to solve. "Dean also refers to me in that way," he said slowly.

Martha felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She didn't think that the angel could get _less_ savvy than when she'd known him, but evidently the brothers had worked on him for a while before she met him. She had to look down to hide her smile as he said, "Is this a human custom? To shorten names? I am not sure Dean's can be shortened further while remaining a meaningful sound."

"It's a nickname," she explained, and Castiel tilted his head. "Cas. It's Dean's nickname for you. Sort of, a way to express affection. Like, it's something you call someone when you're comfortable with them. To show you're friends, I suppose."

The tilt intensified, went forward a little bit, as Castiel asked, "Dean...is communicating that he considers me a friend, when he calls me that?"

Martha blinked up at him, the weight of what she'd just said and when it was that she'd said it hitting her suddenly. "Oh," she said, because she couldn't think of anything else to say, and she had _vanishingly_ little interest in getting involved in the tangled web of a complicated relationship that Dean and Castiel had, at least when they'd known her. She shifted around so that she was facing Castiel fully, although she stayed on the ground, cupping the vortex manipulator in her hands. "Um, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked, and she knew that things must be awkward if she wanted to get to the point of whatever it was the angel had mystically appeared in the room to tell her.

Castiel seemed to consider sitting for a moment, and shifted his trench coat as though to do so, but reconsidered and simply stood by the wall, almost but not quite leaning against it. It was so uncomfortable that Martha almost giggled to relieve the tension.

Giggling was another thing Martha Jones had not done in a very long time.

"You have requested Dean's assistance in proselytizing faith in the Doctor," Castiel stated, and Martha straightened anxiously.

"Not like, in a blasphemous way or anything," she said quickly. "Not like that kind of faith, just the belief that he has a plan, that he can stop the Master—"

She was babbling, and Castiel was holding a hand out in patient interruption, so she shut up. "That is not my point," the angel said, and Martha settled back into a more comfortable posture. "My point is, I cannot imagine that your venture is one that is safe. You have done this thing at great risk to yourself, have you not?"

Martha frowned, turning the manipulator over in her hands. "I guess," she muttered, embarrassed.

"It will, likewise, present a great risk to Dean," Castiel continued, and Martha understood.

"Yes," she said, knowing that honesty was not only the best but the only feasible policy. "There's not really a way around it. The Toclaphane are everywhere, and they're out for anyone who's not where Harold Saxon has put them. I do have this—" she pulled the TARDIS key out from beneath her jacket, and held out it for Castiel; she knew that he'd be able to see the nature of it rather than the physical form, "—and it keeps us from being seen by the Toclaphane. It'll work for both of us; it did when he tried to find Sam."

Castiel stiffened, and Martha felt her cheeks flush. Oh, damn. Dean hadn't told him. Castiel's voice was lower and rougher even than usual as he said, "The Toclaphane discovered you, when you found Dean?"

"No," Martha said. "No, no, not discovered. Just...passed over. The key hid both of us."

"And you were positive that it would?" Castiel demanded, his tone that of a parent attempting to tease the truth out of an unwilling child, but with a chill beneath it that no loving parent's voice would ever hold.

But Martha's Castiel was a friend, or close enough, and without that smite-happy look from earlier on his face, it didn't even occur to her to be frightened of him. So she settled back, crossed her arms, and glared at him. "No," she said, "but I also didn't plan to run into Dean on the way here. Sort of think somebody, or two somebodies, could have kept a better eye on the recently-freed-from-Hell Winchester whose brother was missing."

If that wasn't a tiny hint of shame that crossed Castiel's face, so briefly that it was almost unnoticeable, Martha would eat her vortex manipulator.

Instead she strapped it to her wrist and pulled herself standing, rolling her shoulders back to work out knots. She grabbed her small pack from the ground and slung it over her shoulder. She could still feel Castiel's eyes on her, puzzling her out, trying to make sense of this too-bold, downright _disrespectful_ human woman, wondering if maybe it wasn't just Dean who didn't have a proper sense of propriety when it came to dealing with angels, if maybe it was just a human thing, like nicknames. So when she met his eyes, it was with a little bit (just a little bit) of apology, because from what she knew of Castiel, he must at this point have been almost as confused as Dean. Knowing that, she decided to just answer the question she knew he was trying to ask, instead of letting him struggle to express it.

"I'm gonna do my best to take care of Dean," she said, and Castiel managed to be somehow _more_ still than before, although he'd hardly seemed fidgety. It was a different quality of stillness. "I don't know if you believe me any more than he does, but he's my friend. I care about him, Castiel. And Bobby, and Sam, and you. And trust me, I wouldn't be here, now, if I had a choice. But I knew he came back, now, and I knew that he wouldn't be able to deal with Sam being missing. And I do need his help. The world's gone all to hell—sorry, sorry, bad choice of words," she said quickly, noticing the nearly imperceptible wince that the angel gave at her words, realizing too late that it wasn't just Dean who'd come back from Hell. "The world's...you know. Awful. And I don't have anyone else to ask, Cas, or I would. I'd let him stay here. Even if it meant that we never met, even if I had to sacrifice that, I would. For him. For all of you."

She lowered her eyes, trembling with the truth of what she'd just said. She would have. She didn't know what was going to happen at the end of the year, if she managed to win this thing for the Earth. If the timeline had changed so much that all of her adventures with the boys would just be gone. If she'd remember them, but they wouldn't. But really, honestly, she knew the significance that September of 2008 held for Dean, and if she'd had any other allies, any other options, she would have gone to them instead. She'd have let Dean rest. She'd have let him stay here, safe, as safe and protected as he'd ever be, with Bobby and Castiel watching over him. She'd have let their friendship and all it meant to her disappear into the incomprehensible whorls of Time if it meant that he could have some peace.

"I'm gonna do my best," she added, her words soft but firm. "I'm gonna do everything I can to keep him safe."

"I was..." Martha looked up as Castiel broke off, looking away, looking frustrated and confused. "I was not attempting to elicit a promise from you that you cannot keep, Martha Jones," he said. "Although I appreciate your dedication to the continued safety of my charge, and I know the truth of it. But that was not my intent."

Martha closed her eyes briefly, instead of rolling them, because really, Castiel and the Doctor were just _made_ for each other. Nobody else could say so little with so many words. She'd often wondered, if the two of them were put in a room alone together, if anything of any substance would ever be said. "Then what _was_ your intent, Castiel?" she asked, her voice less sharp than just exhausted.

Castiel blinked at her, and replied, "To accompany you and Dean on your mission." As if it should be obvious.

Martha stared at him, her mouth working uselessly for a moment, before saying, "For real?" like a child.

That seemed to not yet be fully within Castiel's understanding of the English language, but the context clues were enough for him to say, "Yes, Martha. For real."

And the sound of him echoing her words like that with that puzzled expression was just enough of home for her to laugh out loud, drop her pack to the ground, and throw her arms around the suddenly _very _still and _very_ confused angel. It didn't matter that he didn't hug her back. "God, I've missed you," she murmured into his chest.

"I'd prefer you didn't take my Father's name in vain," he corrected mildly, and Martha laughed again.

"Sorry," she said.

A cough from behind them broke the hug, and Martha flushed a little at Dean's raised eyebrow and smirk, then scowled without malice at him. He leaned in the doorway, arms folded. "Am I interrupting a moment?" he asked, and Martha resisted the urge to throw her pack at him.

"Are you done packing?" she asked, ignoring his question, which only made his grin wider. "I'm not carrying your suitcases, princess, so I hope you packed light. We won't be staying at the Marriott."

That wiped the grin right off of Dean's face, and he returned her scowl, but she could tell that there wasn't any heat behind his, either: it was simply that the battle was joined. "I know how to pack," he shot back. "Been Hunting since I was a kid, and if we were such _best friends_ back in the—forward in the—" Dean broke off, frowning. Martha suppressed a laugh. "Man, this is hard to talk about."

"Tell me about it," Martha retorted. "When the Doctor starts getting out of order, _timey-wimey_ becomes the understatement of the year."

Dean's lips trembled as he tried to resist a grin. "Timey...what?" he asked.

"Never mind," Martha said, waving her hands. "It's a _very_ long story. But we were just talking, Dean, Castiel and I, and turns out we're looking at a party of three for this little adventure."

All of the levity fell away from Dean's expression as he turned to Castiel. Martha folded her arms over her chest, as though to protect herself from the disbelieving ache in Dean's voice as he said, "You're coming? Really?"

Castiel's shoulders slumped a little as he said, his voice tinged with something that was almost irritation, "I don't understand why this is difficult to believe. Yes, Dean, yes, Martha, I will join you. I am separated from Heaven and have no other mission on Earth but to protect you, Dean. What else would I be doing?"

"Not complaining," Dean said, putting his hands up defensively, although whether he was defending himself from Castiel's irritation or from something else entirely, it wasn't clear. "Definitely not gonna complain about having angelic backup."

"I would not assume so," Castiel said, studying Dean carefully. Dean seemed to suddenly notice the scrutiny, and looked at Martha, firmly avoiding the angel's gaze. Castiel didn't seem to care and continued to watch Dean.

"So where are we headed?" he asked, a little louder than he'd been speaking before. He grabbed a bag from outside the room, slung it over his shoulder, and walked in.

Martha dug into her own pack and pulled out a tightly-folded map, kneeling down and spreading it out on the floor. This one was of South Dakota; she'd burn it as soon as she left the state. Small circles marked the map in a few places, x's marked other areas, and two locations were boxed off, one in the northeast and one in the midwest of the state. She put her finger several inches to the right of one of the circles. "Here," she said. "There's a small pocket of resistance with its headquarters right here. That's where we'll go first."

Dean crouched down next to her and squinted at the map, then frowned at Martha's finger. "There's nothing marked there," he said.

"Well, no," Martha replied. "If I got caught, I wouldn't want to endanger any of the resistance when they found my map. There's a pretty complicated formula that I use to mark the circles and squares and x's without hitting any of the actual bases, labor camps, or safest jump points, while still letting myself know where everything is."

Castiel joined them, narrowed his eyes for a moment, and pointed to another place on the map. "That is the other base, then," he said, and Martha's face fell. He looked up, puzzled. "The algorithm is fairly clear. Elegant, but clear."

"Well," she sighed, "good thing Saxon doesn't have angels on his team."

"That would be unfortunate," Castiel agreed, and Dean grinned uncharitably at Martha, who shot him back a nasty look.

Martha kept one finger on the base, and put another on the unmarked area that was Singer Salvage. "So I'd estimate that we've got about a twelve-hour walk ahead of us," she said. "The Toclaphane seem to be more active during the day, so we should leave from here within the next couple of hours so most of our travel will be in the dark. Do you have a torch, Dean?"

Dean stared at her like she was suddenly speaking Tibetan.

She sighed. "A flashlight, Dean."

"Oh," Dean said, and dug into his bag, pulling out a heavy-duty flashlight that looked like it could take quite a beating. "Yep."

"Good," she said. "Then we should find Bobby, and see if he can spare any first aid supplies, because I'm running low."

"That will be unnecessary," Castiel interjeected, and Martha and Dean both turned to him. "The flashlights and the first aid, both. There will be no need for a twelve-hour walk, Martha. Now that I know where the base is, I can get us there practically instantaneously, as I would assume you know."

Martha sat up straighter, staring at the map, and the twelve-hour walking distance between Sioux Falls and the resistance base suddenly seemed about as large as it looked on the map in front of her. Her heart lifted. "I didn't even think about that," she said, a little stunned. But she snapped out of it and broke into a huge smile as she looked up at Castiel. "My feet have never been happier," she added.

"Your feet are incapable of emotion," Castiel corrected.

"You are absolutely right," Martha said cheerfully. "Well! Then I guess we ought to get going, no time like the present. Let's find Bobby anyway."

As if on cue, a gruff voice said, "You three heading on out?"

They all looked up at Bobby, in the doorway, looking resigned and more than a little unhappy. Dean was the first to his feet, Martha and Castiel straggling a bit behind him. The younger Hunter started to say something, then hesitated, looking back to his companions. "Can you give us a sec?" he requested, his voice a little rough.

Martha nodded, and she and Castiel went outside, letting Dean and the man who was his father in all but blood say good-bye.

Martha settled down onto the steps in front of Bobby's house, breathing in the crisp air and gazing out at the odd, decaying beauty of the rows and rows of junkers lined throughout the yard. She pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned against the beam.

Castiel stood behind her, and when she glanced up at him, he was peering out at the salvage yard, taking in the scenery with equanimity.

"Thank you for coming with us," she said, and Castiel looked down at her, expressionless. "It's...I really appreciate it. I know Dean does, too."

Castiel watched her for a moment, then turned back out to look over the yard. "I am not sure why you and Dean are so surprised that I would join you," he said. "It seems the obvious course of action."

Martha shifted, turning more towards the angel. "It's not that we're surprised, Castiel," she said. "I mean, maybe Dean is. He still doesn't know you, after all. He doesn't know what to expect. But I'm not surprised. Just grateful." She chuckled. "You can be one without the other, you know."

Castiel didn't react to that, but glanced back towards the house. "Will Dean be long?" he asked. "You seem to believe that we should not waste more time than necessary."

Martha followed his gaze, and sighed. "This is necessary," she said. "He'll be out when he can."

She settled again, her back to the door, and was a little surprised when Castiel settled down next to her, adjusting his trench coat uncomfortably like he'd never done it before. "You are an unusual person, Martha Jones,"

Martha thought about it for a moment, and said, "Probably so."

"Dean lacks faith," Castiel continued, and Martha leaned back against the beam while she listened. "He seems unable to believe that good things can happen to him, without a price attached. And yet he has lived his entire life surrounded by proof of the supernatural. But you, Martha, you are _full_ of faith."

Martha stilled, and said, very carefully, "You think so?"

Castiel nodded. "It is a different kind of faith. I know that it is not in my Father, or in the Host. It is in the Doctor. But faith is faith, Martha. I have hope that, perhaps, you can pass some of that faith on to Dean."

Martha didn't say anything. The fact that Castiel had asked that of her was surprising, but she felt a warm sense of both pride and happiness that he trusted her with that, with bringing Dean around to trust and belief in him. Because she knew that that's what Castiel really meant. He wanted Dean to have faith; faith in _him_.

Martha did, too.

"Hey."

Martha and Castiel turned around, and Dean was standing in the doorway in front of Bobby. "Ready to go?" Dean asked, and Martha nodded and stood, followed by Castiel.

"You three don't do nothin' stupid," Bobby ordered. "And if it gets bad, Castiel, you bring these idjits right back here."

Castiel seemed a bit perplexed by Bobby's commanding tone, but thankfully simply nodded and said, "I will do so."

Martha walked up to him, and said, "I know you don't know me. But...I know you, and I just...I mean, would it be okay..."

Bobby had mercy on her rambling and opened his arms. She ran into them and embraced him desperately, burying her face in his shoulder.

"You take care of my boy," he whispered.

"Above myself," she promised.

"Don't know about all that," he said, sounding startled, as they separated. Martha just smiled and shrugged her pack farther onto her shoulder.

Dean was watching her carefully as she walked back up to them. "I'm ready to go if you are," she said, looking at Dean.

He snapped out of his reverie and said, "I'm ready, too."

Castiel held his fingers out in that benediction pose, and Martha closed her eyes as the world swept away from under her feet.

She wondered if it was weird that this feeling was more familiar than anything she'd encountered in the past third of a year.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: Somebody needs to give Dean-in-my-head grammar lessons, because seriously, so many dangling participles. I tried to fix them but it didn't sound authentic without them.

So after all that emoting, they're finally doing something! Still emoting, but also doing things, which I think is good. Reviews grease the creative wheels, ladies and gents!

* * *

So evidently, that feeling, that _the angel is taking you somewhere through somewhere that might not be anywhere_ feeling, wasn't going to get a lot more pleasant for Dean.

Martha handled it with an annoying equanimity, landing steady on her feet when Castiel brought them back to reality or this dimension or whatever it was that was happening, while Dean staggered a bit until he felt Castiel's hand on his arm, strong and supporting. He righted himself, flashing a grateful almost-smile at the angel, who took his hand away without a change in his expression.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Martha held up a hand with the air of somebody used to being in charge, and Dean shut it. Not without annoyance, but he shut it, and walked over to her so that she could let him know what was going on. Castiel likewise closed in on them, keeping watchful eyes on the dingy compound ahead of them.

"I'm here a few hours early," Martha said, her voice low and soft. "They won't be expecting me, so we might not get a totally warm welcome. Just stick with me, and let me do the talking, all right?"

"By _not totally warm welcome_, do you mean weapons in our faces?" Dean asked.

"Probably," Martha replied, not missing a beat. "But that shouldn't be such a shock to your system, hm?" She threw him a grin and walked off towards the compound, leaving Castiel waiting for a signal from Dean.

"Oh, now we got jokes," Dean muttered, shoving his pack onto his shoulder and stalking after her, followed by Castiel.

"There is something amiss here," Castiel murmured, and Dean looked over at him, his brows drawing together. The angel's expression was cautious, closed; his eyes were narrowed, his lips pressed together. And he'd stepped ahead of Dean.

Like, as if to put himself in danger first. To protect Dean.

(_God, send a guy to Hell for four decades and he comes back a walking, talking chick-flick. Get it together, Winchester._)

"Something amiss, like what?" Dean asked carefully.

"I am not sure," Castiel replied. "There is a...residue, here. The afterimage of some form of energy. I cannot tell what, yet. But be cautious, Dean. Martha."

Martha stopped at her name, turning around. "What kind of energy?" she asked. "Is it the Toclaphane, do you think?"

Castiel considered the question for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Not artron energy, or at least not in the quantities that the Toclaphane leave behind. Something else. It's too faint for me to determine now."

Before Dean could say anything snarky (which he'd have to admit, if forced, was not the farthest thing from his mind) Martha said, "Okay. We'll be careful. Everybody just keep an eye out, okay? But try not to look too edgy because the people we're meeting are going to be edgy, too, and also armed, probably heavily, and we don't want to start a row."

Dean's hand flicked towards the pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans, a barely conscious movement born of years of habit. He hardly noticed he'd done it, but Martha grabbed his wrist in a move that was way faster than he'd expected her to be capable of, and her grip was much tighter than he would have thought. He didn't pull away, although he could have, but glared at her. "The hell?"

"You pull out that gun and they'll open fire, no questions asked," Martha hissed. "I don't think you understand the severity of this situation, Dean. These people have spent the past four months hunted, a death warrant hanging over their heads. They're hiding from an enemy who is _everywhere_ and could be anyone. There's no telling who's on Saxon's side, and there's no telling whose husband or wife or child has been taken and is an informant to keep them safe. So you bring a weapon where they can see it, and they're not gonna take any chances. Understand?"

Dean didn't say anything for a long moment, struggling with his innate instinct to argue, to get the last word, but Martha's eyes were wide and scared and desperate, and hell, she hadn't steered him wrong yet. Besides, anything went bad, they did have the best damn cavalry he could hope for—and Cas had proven that he wasn't willing to let Dean be hurt.

"Okay," Dean said. "I get it. No going in guns blazing. I'll let you take the lead."

Martha hung on to his wrist, looking surprised. "Really?" she said.

"Really what?" Dean asked.

"Just...that easy?" Martha pressed. "No argument? Just, gonna let me take the lead?"

Dean frowned. "I mean, it seems like the obvious thing to do. You're the one who knows what the hell is going on. Problem with it?"

Martha shook her head, and her fingers relaxed and fell away from Dean's wrist. "No," she said. "Just...doesn't seem like you. Not when you knew me. Not—never mind." She took a deep breath, and Dean knew the sound that a person's breath made when they were keeping back emotion, and Martha's was making it. "Let's get this over with, yeah?"

She started walking, and Castiel glanced at Dean, who shrugged and made a sweeping gesture, inviting Castiel to go in front of him. The angel just stared at him, so Dean sighed and followed Martha, hearing the faint rustle of Castiel's coat behind him.

They'd gotten about halfway to the compound when Martha stopped, motioning for Dean and Castiel to do the same. "What's up?" Dean breathed.

"They'll meet us here," she replied, quietly, but not whispering. "I'm sure that their look-outs will have noticed us by now. If not, that's thing number one to talk about once we get inside."

Dean settled into a relaxed stance, folding his arms over his chest, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. Not that he didn't think that Castiel would notice first if something was up, or if something was out there, but it made him feel better—made him feel a little bit more normal, looking out for somebody.

Definitely _not_ normal to feel like he was being looked out for...not in years, maybe not ever, really. He glanced at Castiel out of the corner of his eye, making it seem like just part of his sweep of the perimeter, but he saw the angel staring intently at the compound, waiting for someone (something) to come out of it, wanting to be sure that he saw it coming, whatever it was. Human, demon, Toclaphane, whatever it was, Castiel wanted to be ready for it.

Dean wasn't the type of guy who took a lot of time to catalogue and document and name his emotions. Emotions got in the way of the job, but more than that, most of the emotions he was used to experiencing didn't bear dwelling on. But this was a new one, whatever it was. It felt a little like something was expanding behind his chest, and it made his heart race a little bit, and it felt a little like fear but without the sharpness of fear, without the anger that fear evoked in him.

He wondered if it was what _awe_ felt like. He kind of thought it might be.

His eyes had already moved past Castiel, but when he noticed movement his eyes shot right back to it. Castiel had turned his head and was watching Dean, his brow furrowed a bit as though figuring something else, and oh, _shit_, Cas could read minds.

Think about something else. Anything else.

Geez, it sure was taking the Rebel Alliance a long time to get the hell out here, huh?

As Dean was trying to think about and look at anything that wasn't Castiel, he turned to Martha, who was giving him a weird look. "You all right?" she asked.

"Why?" Dean snapped, not totally meaning to but it came out like that anyway.

"You look like you're gonna puke," Martha said, her own tone a little sharp and irritated in reply. "Hold it together for a little while longer."

"I'm fine," Dean replied, swallowing hard and crossing his arms tighter across his chest. He set his jaw, took a deep breath, and exhaled.

Luckily, saving Dean any more humiliation, it was then that a figure appeared outside of the compound and started walking up to them. Dean and Martha straightened (Castiel really couldn't stand much straighter than he was) and Martha even dusted off her pants, as if she needed to make a good impression.

And hell, maybe she did. The way Bobby talked about her back at the house, it seemed like everybody had it in their heads that she was the only one who could stop Saxon, and she needed to keep that hope up. Seemed to Dean that a little bit of dirt and grime couldn't hurt the image of the on-foot world traveler searching for a mystical gun that could kill a Time Lord, but he supposed that she wasn't always that person—that she hadn't always had to be—and that old habits died hard. Usually having dust caked all over your clothes wasn't the best way to make a first impression, and Dean figured that at some point, Martha had been something normal.

Not that Dean was jealous.

The figure approached and grew clearer, becoming recognizable as a young man, maybe a couple of years younger than Sammy. Certainly much smaller; he looked taller than Martha, but not by much. He had a gun, and it _irked_ Dean to be forbidden to draw his own. The kid didn't look like he was likely to use it, but the nerves that Dean could see him struggling with didn't make the Hunter happy. An inexperienced shooter plus a gun plus nervousness...it wasn't unlikely for that to end badly.

But Martha seemed to have the situation under control, as she stepped forward with both of her hands in the air, displaying herself as unarmed and harmless. (Dean wasn't so sure about _harmless_, but unarmed was distressingly accurate.) She only took a couple of steps, but something about the way she did it made it clear that Dean and Castiel weren't to follow her lead. Dean stayed put, so Castiel did, too.

The kid got within earshot, held the gun at what Dean guessed was supposed to be the ready, and said, "What's your name?"

"Martha Jones."

"What are you here for?" the kid called, not putting the gun down.

"To tell you a story."

"What's the password?"

"There is none."

The kid lowered the gun, but not the whole way, as his eyes flicked anxiously to Dean and Castiel. "Who are they?" he asked.

"Friends," Martha replied, her voice soothing. "I promise, they're on our side. I vouch for them. What's your name?"

"Chris," he said, lowering his gun the rest of the way. He fidgeted with the strap around his shoulder. Clearly he wasn't used to wearing it. "I can...they're expecting you. I mean, just you, Miss Jones, but I can take you in. All of you, that is. You might just need to explain, you know. Your friends."

"That's fine, Chris," said Martha, putting her hand on his arm.

Dean froze, and felt Castiel tense next to him—probably _because_ Dean froze, and not due to any understanding of what Martha was doing because social cues, not his long suit. Initiating physical contact with somebody _that_ high-strung and _that_ well-armed was dicey at best, and suicide at worst.

But Chris relaxed, and Dean could swear he leaned into her touch, just a little bit.

Oh, right. Savior of the Earth. He'd forgotten that he was in the company of the twenty-first century Messiah.

The kid gave Martha a watery smile and gestured—with the barrel of his gun, which made Dean wince—towards the compound. "Follow me," he said, and took off walking.

Martha hung behind a bit, evidently for the express purpose of smirking at Dean and saying, quietly but pointedly, "Didn't think I could handle that, did you?"

Dean pulled a face at her, and said, "You did good." He picked up his pace a little, pulling ahead of her.

She kept up though, skipping a few steps, and caught up with him. "You thought I was gonna startle the guy with the gun," she pressed.

"I did," Dean admitted, "and you didn't. Good job on not getting shot."

Martha grinned, and Dean felt his lips twitch up a little to match her, despite the furrowing of his brow that tried to get the rest of his face to frown along with it. He didn't get that grin, what was behind it. He hadn't said anything kinder than grudging, sarcastic affirmation of the fact that she hadn't gotten herself killed, and yet she was smiling at him like he'd paid her the highest compliment she could hope for.

She was certainly a weird kid.

He wondered how he treated her, when he knew her. If this was the way they acted around each other—like Hunting partners. No space for kindness, no room for gentleness, just rough-and-tumble and get everybody out alive, and the scraps of tenderness that either slipped out on accident or that they found precious seconds to spare for would have to be enough to get by on.

The way he treated Sam, most of the time.

When he drew himself back into the present, Martha was leaning around him to meet Castiel's eyes. The angel looked at her without expression. "When we get in there," she said, "I need you to act as human as possible, all right? You saw the way Chris acted. These people are anxious. They know that Saxon's not human, and they know that the Toclaphane aren't human. So...I know you're not gonna want to lie, so just don't mention what you are, all right?"

Castiel tilted his head, which was kind of funny while he was still walking, and said, "I don't understand. I would think, in times of trouble such as these, that humans would take comfort in being among the Host."

Martha glanced at Dean, who was glancing at Martha, and the look that they shared was worth a thousand words, most of them being _angels, what are you gonna do._

In that moment, Dean believed that at some point, they would be (or they had been or whatever) friends.

"Just take her word for it, Cas," Dean said, and Martha's glance turned grateful. "Remember how I reacted?"

"You doubted me," Castiel replied, and there was an undertone to his voice that Dean wasn't totally sure wasn't hurt.

He plowed ahead anyway. "Yeah, and I know about demons and monsters and all that," he said. "So imagine how a bunch of civilians would react if you dropped that bombshell on them."

Castiel seemed to contemplate that scenario for a moment, then nodded, although he didn't look totally happy about it. "I will do as you say, Martha," he said. "But I will not lie if pressed for an answer."

"Just don't say a lot," Martha suggested lightly. "That's probably the best way to handle the whole thing."

Castiel looked at her, his blue eyes piercing, but she didn't react to it, and they were getting to the compound anyway so the angel made a visible decision to let it go. Chris rapped on the door in a distinct pattern, and the heavy door that led into the facility slid open.

The scene that was laid out before Dean's eyes was dismal. It looked like the place was an old, Cold War-era fallout shelter, all gray, windowless concrete and steel. Inside were huddled about thirty people, men, women, and children. Everyone looked thin, pale, and ragged. It hadn't been long enough for their clothes to have suffered much wear and tear beyond normal, but the impact of the last few months on their spirits was undeniable. Their eyes were sunken and hollow, more from horror than from hunger; shoulders slumped and eyes averted from even each other. The children, five of them, sat in the corner, eating quietly under the supervision of one of the older women. They looked up with wide-eyed gazes, spoons halfway to their mouths. The younger men and women were being instructed in field-stripping what looked like an AK-47 by another young man in a mechanic's jumpsuit sitting on a table with the parts spread out in front of him, who stopped and looked up when the door opened.

The woman who had opened the door was staring at Martha.

Actually, kind of everybody was staring at Martha.

"Are you..." the woman began, and stopped when Martha smiled at her.

"Martha Jones," she affirmed. The woman put a hand over her mouth.

"Who are they?" field-stripping-instructor-guy asked from across the room, gesturing to Dean and Castiel (thankfully, unlike Chris, not with his gun).

"Friends," Martha said, just as she had before. "They've joined me. I can vouch for them."

"Yeah?" the guy said, sliding off of the table he'd been perched on and striding across the room. Dean bristled, but the guy wasn't threatening Martha; in fact, the way he stood in front of her, his eyes darting between her and Dean and Cas, was almost _protective_. "And how are we supposed to know they're not coercing you?"

"Oh, _coercing_," Dean said before he could stop himself, because sarcasm was his first language. "Big word for a grease monkey, _Aaron_."

Aaron (as his jumpsuit announced to the world) took another step towards Dean, this time _definitely_ threatening, but Martha put one hand on his arm and the other on Dean's chest and gave them both a look that the sternest kindergarten teacher would have been proud of. "Are you serious?" she said, slowly, through gritted teeth, emphasizing each word. "The world is under attack and about to end and the two of you are going to get into some sort of macho pissing contest? Not hardly. Dean, cut it out, you're not a child. Aaron, you're just gonna have to trust me. I'm sorry. But you are."

Aaron was still glaring at Dean, who folded his arms over his chest once Martha had taken her hand away. "You, I trust," he said. "_Him_, not so much."

"Fine," Martha said tightly. "I don't really care if you like each other. Now I want you to gather everyone together, everyone in the compound, because we don't have long. I need to tell you my story, and there's no time like the present."

Aaron looked back to his class, and two of the young men jumped up and hurried out of the room, presumably to get whatever survivors were elsewhere in the compound. Then he ushered Martha (and, grudgingly, Dean and Castiel) over to a big communal table, where Martha was seated at the head, flanked by Dean and Cas.

"Nice digs," Dean muttered, low enough that only Martha and Cas could hear him. Martha responded by elbowing him in the hip, and he grunted.

"It's nicer than some places," she muttered back. "American Cold War paranoia was good for something after all, evidently."

The two young men came back in, and everyone gathered around the table. Martha closed her eyes for a moment, then rolled back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened them again.

And as she did that, Dean watched her transform from Martha Jones, scared, exhausted, sad young woman, into Martha Jones, Companion to the Doctor and Savior of the Earth.

"I've traveled across the world," she began, and Dean could barely hear anybody _breathing_. The room fell utterly silent, and every gaze was fixed, rapt, on Martha. "And everywhere I went, I saw people just like you, living as slaves. But if Martha Jones became a legend, then that's wrong, because my name isn't important."

Dean listened to her with half an ear, but he knew the story. He didn't have to have heard it before to know it. But the way she told it, the way she spoke about him...he wondered what it was like to have faith so strong it could carry you on weary feet across an entire planet, with nothing but a Tinkerbell fairy tale to put your hope in. To believe in something _so much_ that you could hope, despite all odds and despite everything that reality would say, that it would come through for you. That you could ask others to hope for that. Faith in the Doctor.

Faith wasn't something that Dean had ever had. He'd stopped praying young, once he realized (or thought he'd realized) that there was nothing bigger than humans that didn't want to kill them. Faith wasn't what he'd had in his father; respect, awe, eagerness to prove himself, but not faith. There wasn't a night he'd spent holed up in a filthy motel room with Sammy that he hadn't worried that Dad wasn't coming home. Faith wasn't what he had in Sam; faith was what he'd tried to cultivate in Sam towards him. Dean had never had anybody to count on.

His eyes flicked unwillingly to Castiel, and he pulled his gaze away quickly.

That wasn't fair. Castiel had already done him a huge favor; to ask more was not only unfair but unrealistic. Cas said he'd been brought back for a reason. Something about his God-given destiny. So there was an ulterior motivation; it wasn't just that Dean didn't deserve an eternity in Hell for taking care of his brother. It was, we need you to work some more, Dean, here's a get-out-of-Hell-free card.

Not that he didn't appreciate it.

Just, what more could he possibly ask of the angel? What more could he expect? How greedy was he, to want protection and friendship, when really all the debt between them was stacked firmly on Dean's side of the equation?

"I believe in the Doctor," Martha was saying. "I can't do anything else. He's never asked for thanks before, never called in the debts we owe him. And he isn't now. But I need you to know about him. I need you to think about him. I need _you_ to believe in him."

Dean Winchester wasn't a man of faith.

But damned if he wasn't impressed by Martha's.

* * *

Edit: Thanks to Illucida for being my grammar-checker! :)


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Doctor, Jack, Castiel

Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter is a little short and not Sam, but I needed a little more time to fully figure out what's happening with Sam, the Master, and the Doctor. I think I've got it sorted out now, but in the meantime, I thought we might take a look at some of our secondary characters! The segments are in the POVs of the characters listed in the chapter title, in that order.

Thanks for all the lovely reviews, guys; I'm really enjoying hearing your thoughts.

* * *

The aching was inescapable.

Nine hundred years of time and space and the Doctor had always outrun it, had always stayed a step ahead of it. But the Master had taken that away from him; had slowed him down enough for the age and weariness to catch up with him. And the Doctor sat in his wheelchair and _ached_.

He ached and he planned, because the Doctor was never not planning. He ached and he planned and he reached out with the gossamer tendrils of power that he still had access to, reached out into the Archangel Network, reached out and could feel the echoes of all the psychic power of all the people he'd fought so hard to protect for so many years. So many more years than he'd been alive, really.

What the Master had created, for all of the horror it was capable of, was beautiful, in its way. The Doctor wasn't strong enough to access it fully. Not yet. But he could touch it, like touching a single thread in a spider's web, and he could feel the Earth and her people, feel their thoughts and their emotions and their beautiful humanity echoing on the strands for just a moment.

He'd been trying, since he'd begun to build this connection, to find Martha. But she wasn't on the Network, of course. She was far too clever for that, his Martha.

So he tried to find Samuel. No luck there, either. The Doctor held out hope that the young Hunter had figured out that something was wrong with the cellular network, had destroyed his phone. Maybe found a resistance group to join with. Him and Bobby both.

Dean, the Doctor wasn't worried about. Well. For a given value of _worried_. There wasn't the awful, breathless panic that he felt when he thought about Martha or Samuel or Bobby. There was nothing he could do for Dean; but Castiel would take care of him, when they returned. Which should be any day now, if the Doctor was keeping track of time accurately.

He did feel a pang when he thought of what it would do to Dean, to return to the world like this. He'd died and condemned himself to Hell to save his brother from suffering; and now, there was no doubt that Samuel was suffering. He wished, more than anything, that he could be there to guide both of them. But that was not in the cards, as it were.

It was during one of his meditations, as he was reaching out to the Archangel Network, that he heard him.

_In, two, three four. Out, two, three, four._

There was an undercurrent like the progression of the tide, a gentle rushing, waving sound, that the Doctor recognized as pain. Physical pain. It was Samuel, in pain, meditating to keep himself from being pulled under, but the pain was fading as he breathed in and out.

Something else was happening as he breathed in and out, too. It was like his mind, the psychic port that existed there, that all sentient beings had but that was made so much stronger that horrible night in 1983...it was expanding, contracting a bit, expanding more. Opening, flowering.

And suddenly the drawing of his blood made a terrible sense.

(The Doctor ignored the pain.)

The Doctor used the connection to talk to him, to try to get through to him, but Samuel couldn't believe that it was anything but a hallucination. At first, at least. And small wonder—months without a word, terrible, wrenching months, and suddenly the Doctor's back in touch? But he _hoped_, and he _wanted_ it to be the Doctor, and that was enough.

The Doctor hoped it was enough for Samuel, too.

Samuel couldn't focus on the Doctor's voice in his head when there was anything else going on, and the Doctor didn't know if the Master suspected something was happening, but of course he walked in _just_ as the Doctor was going to reveal that Dean's resurrection was not the Master's doing. But Samuel's mind was so open, so terribly raw and open, that the Doctor could stay with him as he walked with the Master, as the Master tempted and wheedled and offered Samuel everything he ever wanted.

And the Doctor could explore his mind, gingerly, gently, not wanting to cause him any further pain. But Samuel was so distracted by the mantra that ran relentlessly through his head

(the Doctor was unsurprised that it was just a string of his brother's name, over and over)

that he probably didn't even notice. So the Doctor carded carefully through the connections Samuel's mind was making, through what it had been through—not his memories; the Doctor would never do that without permission, even if it was to help Samuel. But his mind had been through something, something traumatic, something repeated.

How long had he been aboard the _Valiant_? How long had the Master had him here, subjecting him to whatever it was that had left his mind so exposed? The Doctor felt his breath catch at the sudden and surprising pain of the thought that the young Hunter had been here for a prolonged period of time, so close, suffering while the Doctor sat and meditated.

The Doctor couldn't do anything to help him, he realized with a pang. He wasn't strong enough to repair any of the damage. And as he rounded a (metaphorical) corner in Samuel's mind, he realized something else, something far, far worse.

He couldn't help Samuel. But more than that, he needed him damaged. And how many times had that happened to Samuel? How many different forces had broken him and left him broken to their purposes? How could he do the same?

Whatever had happened to Samuel left him receptive to interference, but it was also enough for him to communicate with the Doctor without any effort. And that meant that he could interface with the Archangel Network. That, plus his humanity, meant that he could interface with the network in a way that the Doctor couldn't—it was designed for a neurophysiology like Samuel's, after all.

_I'm so sorry_, the Doctor thought, and felt a slight _ping_ of attention from Samuel, but no response.

He told himself that he could protect everyone this way. He could protect Samuel from the Master's further harm; he could protect Dean from the Master using him as a pawn to get to Samuel (although he didn't doubt that Castiel had that under control). He could take attention off of Martha, because the Master would be preoccupied with Samuel.

But it didn't feel any less like a betrayal; another betrayal, one of such a long list. He wanted Samuel's trust, _needed_ his trust. Needed him to know that the Doctor would never give up on him, never turn his back on him.

He needed him to know that the Doctor would always save Samuel Winchester.

He wondered if, after this was over, Samuel would ever be able to believe that again.

...

Jack and Tish had worked out a pretty useful little system for talking without letting anything slip, and by now, adding words to the vocabulary wasn't hard. _Sam_ became the sign for _s_ in British sign language, which, luckily, they were both very basically familiar with. Jack couldn't do it very well, given that his wrists were chained to the posts and his arms stretched out on either side of him, but when he hooked his right little finger and held his left out, Tish knew what he was talking about.

So she walked in to get him lunch, and he signed _Sam?_

She placed his plate down, and signed a negative, and then laid three fingers briefly across her palm in an _m_. Martha. No Martha.

Sam hadn't heard from Martha before he was taken aboard the _Valiant_.

_Is Sam okay?_

_Yes. Given medicine._

_Sick?_

_Pain._

Jack stopped to eat, but in between bites they were able to squeeze in a little more conversation. The Master had given something to Tish to give to Samuel—something for him to drink. He was in pain before, but was better now. He hadn't seen Martha, but had heard of her. Tish was pretty sure that the Master had gone in to see him after she'd left—he'd gone to Sam or had Sam brought to him each day since Sam had been taken from the engine room.

And the Doctor was still holed away in the control room, and he hadn't had the chance to speak to Tish at all. She'd heard him speak to the Master, but only in murmurs. He was quiet, for the most part, staring out the window as though waiting for something.

Jack didn't believe that the Doctor would let the Master hurt Sam. He truly didn't. The Doctor had risked disrupting their time line as children by sending Jack to interfere with Anna's plans for them, he'd sent himself to Hell for an unthinkably long time to protect them from the demons' machinations, he'd gone back to their time again and again with Rose and with Martha to keep them safe and to give them respite, when he could. God only knew how many more of his friends and allies he'd enlisted to safeguard these two young men, how many people were part of the army keeping Sam and Dean Winchester alive and well throughout their lifetimes.

Jack believed in the Doctor, more than anyone he'd ever known. The Doctor, who could barely stand to be in the same room with him now, now that he was going to live forever thanks to the Doctor's own Companion. But it didn't matter. Jack believed in him.

But what Jack believed in more was the Doctor's commitment to Sam. He'd seen the Doctor attach himself to humans before, but this was different. Sam wasn't his Companion. Sam was something else.

Held within the fragile human being that was Sam Winchester was the return of Gallifrey. And as much as the Doctor wanted to say he was sorry for what had happened to Sam that night in his nursery when he was six months old, as much as the Doctor wanted to _mean_ it, Jack knew him. Jack knew that there was a part of the Doctor that was helplessly glad to have someone else who was like him. And even the Master, who was _actually_ another Time Lord, wasn't going to take that from him.

The Doctor wouldn't allow the Master to take Sam away. And Jack believed that, believed it with a faith that could move mountains.

So when he signed to Tish before she left, he signed, _It's going to be okay._

She left without signing anything back.

...

The bunker was quiet after Martha had finished her story, and Castiel had little to do but continue to ensure Dean's safety.

His charge was sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking quietly to Martha and gesturing on occasion to the young man who had attempted to fight with him on their arrival. Martha's expression indicated amusement, and Castiel supposed that Dean was saying something humorous, although the Hunter's features did not communicate such an intent. In fact, Dean's eyes were narrowed, and as he leaned in to say something to Martha, he put his finger very close to her face, which Castiel had thought was a somewhat aggressive gesture.

Nonetheless, there was a softness about Dean's posture, something in the cant of his shoulders, in the curve of his spine, that told Castiel that his charge was relaxed. He was confident that eventually, he would not have to so thoroughly catalogue the individual aspects of Dean's body language in order to determine his mood. But the human was so contradictory that it was often disadvantageous to assume anything.

Martha was easier to read. She was courteous in that: she laid out her emotions before her for Castiel to see, hiding nothing. She said that she was a Companion of the Doctor, and Castiel had no reason to disbelieve her; it would, therefore, make sense that she was more accustomed to helping a non-human understand her. And while he had not trusted her when he met her, she'd given him no reason since to think that she meant harm to Dean.

(That was his only concern; for all Martha's associations with the Doctor, she was still human, and therefore she could mean harm to Castiel however much she pleased. It would do her no good.)

Castiel had not allowed his connection with Dean to flag since he had pulled the Hunter's soul from Hell; therefore, he knew at every moment where his charge was, if there was danger, and, to some degree, his emotional state. And Martha brought out a lightness in Dean that Castiel had not witnessed before. When reunited with Bobby Singer, Dean had felt relief, gratitude, and love, but also anxiety, guilt, and grief. With Martha, he felt at ease. He felt confusion, and occasionally he would feel the need to test her with his anger and his stubbornness, but she accepted it.

Dean attempted to make her turn away from him, to prove him right in his belief that no one could care about him. She refused.

He watched Martha strike Dean in the shoulder with her fist—the shoulder upon which he had left his mark. Dean winced at the impact, and for a moment Castiel considered intervening, but determined from Dean's expression (which was more exaggeratedly annoyed than pained) that it was unnecessary.

Besides. If he was correct, he should save his strength. There would be greater battles to fight than the childish scrapping of his charge and the Doctor's Companion.

As little as he liked to admit it, or think about it, Castiel could still feel the Hellfire that clung to Dean's soul; an almost physical sensation, almost an odor, as though it gave off an acrid smoke. Despite the brightness of it, the beauty of it beneath the tainted layer, Castiel could not ignore what he felt. He wished to purge it, to scrub it clean, to put out the fires that would flare and diminish as Dean fought what had happened to him and succumbed to wallow in it. But Castiel could not fix this thing. Dean's soul was Castiel's to save, but not to repair.

So because of that, he wondered if what he felt was simply that: the remnants of Hell that Dean carried with him.

He tilted his head, and focused on his charge. Reached out with his Grace and touched the soul that he'd dragged from the Pit, that he had held between his wings and carried to safety. The soul that was now housed within the body that he himself had rebuilt. His charge.

Martha was saying something to him, and Dean's eyes were wide, the edges of his mouth twitching as he attempted not to smile. And as Castiel's Grace touched his soul, the angel felt something in it that he had not felt before.

Peace.

Sadness. An almost-physical pain that came, Castiel knew, from the business of repressing his memories of Hell. Weariness. But peace, too; almost tranquility.

Castiel decided that he liked Martha Jones.

He considered exploring this emotion, what provoked it and what he could do to help Dean maintain it, but the Hunter was beginning to realize that something was happening to him and was growing uneasy. Castiel retreated before that unease could grow into something conscious.

More immediately significant than the realization that Dean was at peace, however, was the realization that if this was the case, then his soul was not what was giving off that impression of Hellfire that had set Castiel's vessel's teeth on edge.

Martha Jones had called this a safe-house.

Castiel thought that perhaps she was wrong.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: I barely know what to say because the response to the last chapter was so overwhelming, and I am having so many feelings about it. Thank you guys so, so much for all of your kind words. I hope this chapter lives up to the promise of the last one.

Also, quick poll: would anybody be super offended if the next story wasn't in chronological order according to the Winchesters' time line? I feel like this story is so angsty that we need something lighter for the next one, and the story in the queue that's the most fun doesn't happen til DW S4, SPN S5/6. (Which I know, weird place for a fun story.) Let me know!

* * *

Sam was working really, really hard on not going crazy.

He felt like it was harder than it used to be, and Sam was a connoisseur of not-going-crazy. He'd been working at it consciously since he was twenty-one—although, if he thought about it, he'd been doing it since he was a kid and couldn't describe to Dean what exactly it was that felt _off_ about Jack Harkness.

(In a vague, distant part of his mind, he hoped Jack was okay.)

But he couldn't get away from the frantic murmur of the Doctor's voice in his head, even if he couldn't make out the words, and his body was thrumming with power (in a way that it didn't, normally, and then he remembered that this wasn't Ruby's blood, it was the Doctor's, and he felt so ill that he had to stop walking for a moment). His hands trembled, his head swam, and Harold Saxon wanted an answer.

Sam Winchester was so totally screwed.

"I wanted to discuss your thoughts on my offer," Saxon was saying, his voice casual and his eyes placidly cast ahead on the hall before them, and Sam tried to keep his hands steady but wasn't having much success. "It has, after all, been several days, and honestly, I can't see what there is to consider further. Are there elements of it that are concerning you, Sam?"

Sam blinked hard against the buzzing sound of the Doctor in his head, and inhaled in a shuddery gasp. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Saxon turn to him, alarmed. He turned, too, bracing himself on the wall as he tried not to stumble.

Too many things in his mind. Way too many.

Time Lord blood was _very_ different from demon blood.

"Are you quite all right, Sam?" Saxon asked, and it was all Sam could do not to jump. Instead he contented himself with staring, wide-eyed, at the Time Lord, processing his words very slowly.

"Yes," Sam whispered. He blinked again, shook his head, and started over. "Yeah. I'm, ah. Fine. I'm fine."

Saxon's face split in a gleeful grin, and he clapped Sam on the shoulder. Sam almost cried out at the contact—not because it hurt, but because it was too much sensation. Everything was too much.

"Been a while since you've had _that_ in your system, hasn't it?" asked Saxon, and Sam just kept staring. "Gets your brain moving, your neurons going! Start thinking more like the god you should be, rather than the ape you were born as, eh?"

Sam wanted really badly to be insulted enough by that to do something about it, but his head was starting to hurt enough that it was hard to focus on anything else.

He was pretty sure he heard a murmur of _sorry_, and then the buzzing in his head faded into a subdued background white noise. He sucked in a breath, steadied himself, and focused on staying upright until he was pretty sure he could do it without thinking about it too much. He wetted his lips with his parched tongue, and said, "I'm. It's different. For sure. Gonna take some...getting used to. I guess." He swallowed hard.

Saxon's hand on his arm was almost comforting, if still a little too much pressure, and _way_ too much closeness. "You'll get accustomed to it," the Time Lord promised. "Your brain will learn how to accept it, how to control it, and, eventually, how to master it." He chuckled a bit, and Sam frowned before he remembered Saxon's Time Lord moniker. Then it was just a bad pun, and the frown became deeper. Saxon noticed and sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Lighten up, Sammy."

"Don't call me that," Sam said, automatic, and his heart sank as he realized who it was he was talking to.

He was hesitant to look at Saxon, but when he did, he saw that the Time Lord's face was painted in a mockery of sympathy. "That's right," he said. "There's only one person who gets to call you that, right? Darling big brother. And I'm glad you brought him up."

"Did you find him?" Sam asked, a little too fast and a little too desperate. A smirk made its way onto Saxon's face, barely there but noticeable to Sam.

It was quickly squashed in favor of more sympathy. "Not yet," he said, "although I have my best agents looking for him. All of my forces are under orders not to harm him, but some of the humans have become...well, a bit savage, if we're being honest. I only hope we can find him before they do."

Sam was about to press him for more information, to make him elaborate on that thinly-veiled threat, but Saxon gripped both of his arms and turned him so that they were facing each other. Sam looked down at him, amazed at how vulnerable he could be made to feel by someone who, by all rights, he could physically overpower so easily. His eyes flicked over the floor and the walls, unwilling to meet Saxon's.

"I need an answer, Sam," the Time Lord said, his voice low. "I'm not your Doctor. I haven't his infinite patience. I need an answer, and I need it now."

His hands pressed into Sam's arms, and his eyes bored into Sam's head, and the fingers that gripped Sam tight enough to hurt could easily run over the communications board and order the Toclaphane to kill Dean. To kill him again, when he'd just now gotten back.

It was halfway in his mind to just say _yes_ and be done with it, but sometimes a Winchester's brain can do things on its own, be stubborn and difficult even when its owner doesn't intend to, so instead he said, "How did you bring Dean back?"

Saxon stared at him for a moment, then released his arms and stalked a few paces away, running his hands through his blond hair. He blew a breath through his teeth in exasperation and said, "Does it _matter_? Your brother is back! Everything you wanted! You say yes, I keep him safe! You say yes, I give _you_ the power to keep him safe! What more could you want, Sam? Why does it _matter_ how I brought him back? I swear, I don't see what the Doctor sees in your kind. Pathetic primates, scrabbling in the dirt and too ignorant and fearful to accept a hand to elevate them."

"Just tell me what you did," Sam said, his voice soft, ignoring the churning fear in his stomach that rose as Saxon paced, growing more and more agitated by the second. "Please. There's...just tell me why I should believe my brother's okay. Why I should believe you brought him back right. Because...you can't do that. And the Doctor said he couldn't. Just make me understand. Please."

Saxon stopped pacing, and glared up at Sam. "_No_," he said. "Your brother is back, you ungrateful heap of poorly-evolved carbon, and if that's not enough for you to join me, not enough for you to _allow_ me to give you a place in my _empire_, then you can join your precious Doctor and your precious Captain where you belong: under my boot."

Before Sam could fully react, Saxon snapped his fingers and Sam's arms were grabbed by two UNIT soldiers. He struggled for a second, but realized that it was futile, and stilled.

Saxon gestured, and one of the soldiers kicked Sam's legs from under him, and he crashed to his knees, barely supported by the soldiers. On purpose, he knew. Saxon approached him, crouched by him, and held his hands out on either side of Sam's head, waggling his fingers with wide eyes as he smiled a cruel smile. "If you won't join me willingly," he said, "then let's see what you have in that head of yours that I can use."

"No," Sam gasped, rearing away, but he was kept in place with a knee against his spine and Saxon's fingers locked onto his temples.

He'd only had his mind delved into once before, and that was when the Doctor gave him the knowledge of the TARDIS to get to the Shadow Proclamation, and it was _nothing_ like this. Sam cried out in agony as Saxon tore through his mind, ripped his way through memories and thoughts and emotions and hopes and dreams. He shuddered and convulsed under Saxon's hands as he was laid bare, stripped to his essence and exposed for Saxon to pick through at his leisure. Every terrible hunt, every precious childhood memory, every time Dad had yelled at Dean and Sam wanted to scream and every time Dean had held Sam through his nightmares and every time Sam dreamed about going to college and every time Sam had relived Jess's death and every time Sam had relived Dean's death (deaths all of his deaths every damned _Tuesday_) opened under Saxon's demand, and Sam couldn't do anything but weep, but Sam knew the exact moment when Saxon found precisely what it was he was looking for.

Because Saxon didn't care about hurting Sam. Saxon wanted to hurt the Doctor, and he had what he needed now.

He took his hands away from Sam's head, and Sam gasped, a painful, violent, shuddering breath that shook his whole frame. He hung his head and hyperventilated, focusing on his breath and doing his best to meditate the way he knew how to do by now, dammit, and after a while he was able to look up and see that Saxon was smiling.

It was the worst smile he'd ever seen.

"Oh, Sammy," Saxon said, laughing, "we've been getting _extracurricular_ with your poor little deformed brain, haven't we? I can't say I blame you, she's quite the pretty one. But really, Sammy. Demon blood? As if your own biology wasn't perversion enough for your Time Lord neurophysiology to have to bear, you're going to pollute yourself with _demon blood_? What _would_ your Doctor think?"

"You can't," Sam choked out. "He doesn't-find out. Til later. Please. He can't know."

Saxon sat back on his heels and grinned. "But Sam, sweet little stupid Sam, this entire time line is running on a paradox that _I_ created," he said. "It doesn't _matter_ what happened before or after or since or in any direction. I am the Lord of Time, the Lord of _This Time_, and it will bend to my will, do you understand? Do you see what you've put yourself up against? Would _yes_ have been such a hard word to say?"

"Please," Sam breathed, but Saxon simply clapped his hands and stood up, motioning for the UNIT soldiers to pull Sam to his feet. They did so, and Sam suppressed a cry of pain with no small amount of difficulty. He felt a few aftershock shudders run through his body, but he was supported, this time, by the soldiers.

"Let's go pay your old friend a visit," Saxon said, his voice saying _suggestion_ but his eyes saying _command_, and the UNIT soldiers dragged Sam behind him as he took off down the hallway.

"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you," Saxon continued, his back to Sam. "He's been...a bit taciturn these last few months, you see. Perhaps a visit from his most favorite human would lift his spirits a little bit."

"Don't you tell him," Sam tried to shout, but his throat felt raw and he could only manage a sort of half-coughing voice. Saxon didn't even stop his progress, and certainly didn't deign to reply.

"Maybe the Doctor can advise me on how to handle the topic of your refusal," Saxon said, thoughtfully. "After all, I can't just let it slide. I am the supreme ruler of this planet and I can't afford to have that reputation, all the work I've put into my authority _tarnished _because one stubborn boy can't take a good thing when it's given to him. It's always been your problem, hasn't it, Sam? You and your brother. You can't see a good thing when it's handed to you."

Sam wanted to reply, but the buzzing had started in his head again, as the Doctor, he guessed, felt his panic or something. It was fuzzy and unclear at first, like it had been right after he'd drunk the blood, but it quickly resolved itself into clarity and he could hear him.

_Samuel, what's wrong? What's happened? Can you talk to me? Has he hurt you?_

And Sam wanted to reply to _him_, too. But he laughed, a low, broken chuckle, instead, because he was only human and he didn't know what to do. Didn't know if Saxon could hear him if he sent something back to the Doctor. Didn't know if he could push the thing about the demon blood far enough down that the Doctor wouldn't be able to find it, if he talked to him. And it wasn't fair: who thought it was a good idea to put the integrity of the time line into his hands? Who thought it would be safe to give Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood, Azazel's boy-king, screw-up Winchester kid extraordinaire who managed to kill both his mom and his brother, the tools to up-end the Doctor's own time line?

He didn't look up as the UNIT soldiers threw him into the control room. Didn't look up when he heard the Doctor gasp his name in a voice that was too frail and old to be the Doctor's. Didn't look up when Saxon grabbed him roughly by the hair, as though presenting him to the Doctor.

"You've certainly trained him well, Theta," Saxon sneered. "So noble and moral. Look up, _Sammy_, and see how well that's worked out for your mentor."

Sam didn't look up, and initially struggled against it when Saxon put a hand under his chin and tried to wrench his face up, but gave in after just a moment. He was too tired and hurt too much.

But when he gave in, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "Doctor," he whispered.

The creature in front of him looked vanishingly little like the Time Lord he knew. Wrinkled and decrepit, his large brown eyes sunken into his head and dull, his shoulders hunched in defeat. (Or what he wanted Saxon to _think_ was defeat, Sam insisted to himself, although he wasn't convinced that it wasn't real. It looked real. It looked _terribly_ real.) It was a shrunken shell of the Doctor that sat before him, looking small and vulnerable in the wheelchair. Sam felt a lump rise in his throat, and wasn't sure if it was grief or panic.

"This is where clinging to the past leads you," Saxon said, as though lecturing a class of disobedient students. "He is the past, Sam. I am the future. I am your future. His. The Earth's. All of humanity's, including your brother's, for better or for worse. It's for you to decide."

But Sam's eyes were only on the Doctor, and he could barely feel Saxon's hand wrapped tight in his hair, and he said, "I said no, Doctor. I didn't...I said no."

"I know, Samuel," the Doctor breathed.

"Such a touching reunion," said Saxon, releasing Sam's hair and walking between them, hands clasped together. "Oh, Doctor, I can see how _proud_ you are of your little protegé. But I think Sammy has something to tell you, doesn't he?"

"Don't," Sam cried.

"Oh, but the misplaced adulation just _rankles_," Saxon protested. "Shouldn't he know the truth about you, Sam? What, are you ashamed of something? Do you have something to hide from him? Doesn't the Doctor deserve the truth of you?"

Sam fell silent. His brain screamed at him to say something, to fight it, but there was a part of him that couldn't contest Saxon's words.

The Doctor _did_ deserve to know the truth of him. And maybe, with the paradox machine screwing up the time line good and proper anyway, it wouldn't matter.

So he said nothing, and Saxon smiled.

And the Doctor said, "I _do_ know the truth of Samuel, and whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear."

"Oh, that's funny," Saxon said, "because _I don't care what you want_, Doctor, have you forgotten? For once in your bloody _life_ this isn't about _what you want_. This is about what _I_ want, and what _I_ decide you can have. And what I've decided you get now, Doctor, is the truth about this _ape_ you'd throw everything away for. Tell him, Samuel."

Sam said nothing.

Saxon reached out, and one of the UNIT soldiers handed him a pistol, which he cocked and pointed at Sam's head. The Doctor cried out for him to stop, but he didn't move, just glared coldly at Sam and said, "Tell him _now_ or I will shoot you. Not to kill, not at first. I'll kill your _brother_ first and make you watch, and _then_ I'll kill you. Tell him."

_Samuel, say yes._

Sam's head jerked up and he stared at the Doctor, who met his eyes with a desperate intensity.

_Say yes. Agree to join him. Samuel, please, trust me, say yes._

_I can't, Doctor!_

_You can, Samuel, you have to, _trust me_. I won't let you down, but you have to trust me right now. Right now, Samuel, you don't have time!_

"I'll join you," Sam gasped, still staring at the Doctor, then turning quickly to Saxon, realizing how obvious he was being.

But luckily Saxon looked stunned enough that perhaps he didn't notice, and when he lowered the gun Sam allowed himself to hope that that was true.

Taking the opening, Sam improvised. "Don't hurt my brother, please. I'll join you. Just don't hurt him. Don't hurt Dean."

Saxon stared at Sam for a long moment, then handed the gun back to the UNIT soldier. A smile spread across his face, and Sam winced when he clapped his hands loudly and barked out a laugh. He spun on his heel to face the Doctor, who had donned a mask of horror. "You see, _Doctor_? My way wins! My way _always_ wins! Your precious hybrid child is going to sit at my side as we burn your favorite planet to cinders, because ultimately, nobody but _you_ cares about it! I keep his brother alive and he says to _hell_ with the rest of it. Your Martha will die, your Sarah Jane will die, but his brother gets to live. Because he said _yes_, Doctor, because he stopped _defying_ me, just as you will, one day. But not until it's too late. Never until it's too late, eh, Theta? _Never_."

The UNIT soldiers helped Sam to his feet, where he stood, shaking. He was still watching the Doctor, trying to reassure himself that the look on his face was artifice, when Saxon gripped him by the arm, beaming up at him. "Let's go, my boy," he said briskly. "We have an empire to introduce you to!"

Sam let Saxon lead him out of the room, keeping his eyes on the Doctor until he couldn't anymore.

_Tell me it's okay, Doctor, tell me this is right,_ he begged.

And heard nothing in return.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Martha Jones

Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay! A little cold knocked me out for a bit and I couldn't write through the fever haze. Or at least, I couldn't write anything that made a bit of sense. So I figured you'd prefer a little late and coherent as opposed to on time and in what appeared to be the language of R'lyeh.

* * *

Martha was always exhausted after she told her story, and this time wasn't any different. There was some bustle about the bunker when she finished as the adults prepared dinner, having refused her help or Dean's in getting it ready. (Castiel had neither offered nor been asked, but instead seemed content to sit a little ways away and guard them. Well. Probably to guard Dean.) So Martha simply sat with Dean on the floor, leaning against the wall and definitely not falling asleep.

"Hey."

She blinked, surprised at how heavy her eyelids felt, and looked up at Dean, who was poking her shoulder. "Mm?" she replied.

"You nodded off," he said.

Martha made a face. "Didn't."

Dean shrugged. "Okay, then, stop snoring while you're awake, it's weird."

Martha shoved him, and he let himself be pushed, then came back and bumped her shoulder with his. He grinned at her, and she punched his arm. (She wasn't unaware of the way Castiel's gaze focused on her, but she wasn't worried about it, either.)

She watched him, the way his eyes stayed in constant motion across the room: the deeply ingrained instinct of a Hunter. The soul-deep wounds of a man who never got to be a child, the Doctor would say, when they sat in the library and talked about The Boys after an adventure.

(The Winchesters never called them adventures. They'd always say a case, a mission. The Doctor always called their trips adventures. Martha wished she'd hear one of the brothers say _adventure_, some time.)

"I don't think you have to worry," she said quietly, and he glanced down at her. "About...keeping an eye out. I think Castiel's got a handle on that."

Dean looked up and at Castiel, and the angel nodded when their eyes met. Dean looked away quickly. "Guess you're right," he muttered.

They sat in silence for a moment, until Dean said, "Does it get...less weird?"

Martha tilted her head, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm gonna guess, given our track record, that the answer's no, but I'll have to know what you're talking about to give you a firmer response," she said.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, and worked his jaw, then said, his voice very low: "Having him around."

Oh. Martha's eyebrows shot up, and she very determinedly did _not_ look at Castiel, and said, "What, Cas? Oh, Dean. You have no idea."

"Well, that's a no," Dean said, sounding dejected.

"That couldn't be _less_ of a no," Martha said, and Dean frowned. "Dean, I can't even tell you, the way you and your brother acted with him when you knew me..." She shook her head. "I can't articulate it. But yes, it gets less weird. I mean, less awkward. Not less weird. You boys never get less weird."

She leaned her head back on the wall, then realized that Dean was watching her. She made a face at him. "What?"

"Is it..." He broke off, running a hand through his hair. She waited. "Us not knowing you. It's got to be hard."

Only like not having oxygen to breathe, but Martha schooled her features into a semblance of neutrality and shrugged. "It's strange," she said with an ease she didn't feel. "But really, when you've traveled with the Doctor as long as I have you get used to things being a bit...wibbly wobbly, timey wimey."

"What the hell are you saying?" Dean laughed, shaking his head, his eyebrows drawing together in an expression of bewilderment, and Martha had to press her lips together to keep the stinging in her eyes from becoming anything more and instead tried to laugh, too. She was largely successful in the attempt.

"It's just...something the Doctor says," Martha explained. "Just that we didn't always stay in order, me and the Doctor and you and the others. It got confusing. We started to keep ledgers. Have you done this yet? No? Okay, then we must be here."

"Do I get better?" Dean asked, softly, and while Martha wished she could stall by asking what he meant, she knew and she wasn't going to insult him by pretending otherwise. She couldn't keep his gaze, though, and looked down at her hands, picking at her fingernails.

"You do," she said, and meant it. "It's not easy. And you try not to. But maybe this time, you can do it differently, y'know? Don't push Sam away. Or Bobby. Or, God, Cas." She saw the movement of Castiel's head as he undoubtedly somehow _felt_ her use of the Lord's name in vain, and she winced and mouthed _sorry_. He kept his narrowed eyes on her, and she turned to Dean. "You're surrounded by people who care about you. Don't forget that, this time. If it gets too heavy, let somebody help you carry it."

"Yeah, okay," Dean scoffed, and while Martha could hear something deeper under his flippant tone, she didn't have time to call him on it before a buzzing that had started in the room escalated into pandemonium, and Dean's most-favorite-person Aaron hauled a TV into the room and hooked it up to a generator. Dean looked at Martha, confused. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Martha said, standing slowly. Dean followed suit. "Television broadcasts haven't been up in ages. It's got to be a message from Saxon."

Dean straightened, like a bolt of lightning had been rammed up his spine, and stared at her. "Saxon?" He glared at the television, his hands tightening into fists. "Finally gonna get to see the son of a bitch that took my brother. So I'll know who to beat the crap out of when we get there."

"Get there?" Martha exclaimed, putting a hand on his arm to stop his progress as he tried to walk to the TV. "Dean, what are you talking about?"

He frowned at her. "I mean when we get to the airship or whatever, to save Sammy and the Doctor and Jack and your family," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Right? That's the plan?"

Martha was still staring at him, trying to develop some kind of coherent response, when the TV crackled to life and a few people gave cries of surprise. Aaron shouted over the din, "Miss Jones! You're gonna want to see this."

"We'll talk in a bit," Martha said sternly, and walked over to the crowd assembled at the TV, followed by Dean and Castiel.

She pretended not to hear Dean whining about her to the angel, who she assumed was staring at him in bemused silence.

Static gave way to a test screen, and Martha wrinkled her nose at the Master's flare for the dramatic and the nostalgic. The test screen flickered a few times, and resolved into an image of the Master, wearing a suit and looking a bit more disheveled than he normally did, which Martha took as a tentatively good sign. He tapped on the lens of the camera, grinned widely, and stepped back.

"People of Earth!" he cried, and gave a manic laugh. Martha knew that her face must have betrayed the myriad of unpleasant emotions seeing him awoke in her, because she felt Dean's hand on her arm, but she didn't move or take her eyes off of the TV. "My people. Your Lord and _Master_ greets you on this momentous day."

A murmuring among the assembled rebels told Martha that they didn't know what he was talking about any more than she did.

"Months have gone by under my rule, and I wonder if you haven't felt..._underrepresented_ in your new government," the Master continued. "And I am not heartless! In fact, I'm rather gifted in that particular arena, but I digress. People of Earth, I have someone to introduce you to. One of your own, in some ways. Raised among you, part of your culture. Some of you will know him...that quiet boy in your schools, your motels, your shops."

Martha felt Dean freeze next to her at the word _motel_.

"People of Earth, attend. I present to you my second-in-command, the new crown prince of the New Gallifreyan Empire." The Master looked off-camera, a chilling mockery of a fond smile on his face, and he made a beckoning gesture.

Sam Winchester walked slowly into the frame.

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

Martha couldn't suppress her smile.

"Sam Winchester," the Master said. "One of your own. Now your lord. And with him by my side, I will create this world anew." His expression changed, and he stared directly into the camera, and Martha felt like he was looking only at her.

And then he said, "So you might as well give up now, Miss Jones."

And the transmission cut off.

There was absolute, utter silence in the room, and as one the assembled humans turned to Martha. She couldn't keep the giddy smile off of her face, even as Dean whispered in the most broken voice she'd ever heard, "What the hell did you do, Sammy?"

She was still staring at the static-filled TV set, but she gripped Dean's arm and shook her head. "No, Dean."

He shook her hand off, and she turned to him. He glowered down at her, and snapped, "What do you mean, _no_? Were you _watching_ that? What the hell was that? Sammy _joined_ Saxon?"

Martha's smile faded, and she grabbed the lapel of Dean's jacket and tugged him down to her eye level. He was startled, so she was able to. "You listen to me, Dean Winchester," she hissed. "I've watched you give up on too many people since you've been back, but I am _not_ going to see you give up on your brother. You hear me? It is _not_ going to happen, not on my watch."

"Then you tell me what happened," Dean said, and behind the brashness of it, Martha heard the genuine plea, and she softened.

"I will," she said. "What happened is that your brother was taken to the _Valiant_ and he found the Doctor. He did exactly what he needed to do, and he found the Doctor. And the Doctor, as he always does, has a plan."

"You think this is part of a plan?" Dean asked, dubious, but unable to disguise the hope in his voice.

Martha fixed him with a glare. "You think your brother would side with a psychopathic Time Lord for any other reason?" she asked. "He thinks you're still dead. They can't even hold _you_ over his head, not at this point. He found the Doctor, Dean. And I don't know what he's planning, but he's got a plan. I promise."

Aaron had walked up to them at some point during that last speech, and Martha didn't notice until he cleared his throat. She and Dean both turned to him, a little startled, and Martha couldn't help but take note of the way that Castiel edged a little closer to Dean, in case the other man tried anything. "Who was that guy?" he asked, his voice quiet, and Martha instantly knew it was the wrong question for him to ask.

Dean puffed up aggressively, took a step forward, and said, "My brother. You got a problem with it?"

Martha elbowed him back, stepping between him and Aaron, and said, "Enough, Dean. Nobody said anything. We don't need to fight each other."

"That's your brother?" Aaron asked, and Martha shot him a warning glare. He stopped. Dean inhaled to reply, and Martha turned the glare on _him_, and he stopped, too.

Sometimes being the closest thing to a mother that a bunch of scared young men had was useful.

"This is what's happening," Martha said, her voice crisp and firm and no-nonsense. "Sam is Dean's brother, kidnapped by the Master and taken to the _Valiant_. He's on our side. Don't argue with me, Aaron, I know Sam. He'd never betray us. He doesn't have it in him, even if he wanted to. So what we just saw? It's _good news_. It's not Saxon that has a new ally, it's us. All right?"

Aaron didn't say anything.

Martha's eyes darkened. "All right?" she repeated.

Aaron tilted his head back a bit, sticking out his chin and his chest, folded his arms and said, "No. No, it's really not."

"The hell did you say?" Dean said, low and dark and dangerous, and this time it was Castiel who put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

He stopped. Immediately.

"I said it's not all right," Aaron said. "I said for some reason, I don't feel especially _safe_ with the brother of the Master's new boy toy camping out with us. You can say whatever you want about oh, there's no way he'd turn on us, but I don't believe in anything I can't prove and _you can't prove that to me_. Not even you, Miss Jones. So I think these two at least ought to leave."

Castiel's hand had stayed on Dean's shoulder, and good thing, because it seemed like that weight was the only thing keeping Dean from trying to tear Aaron's throat out. "Nobody talks about my kid brother like that," Dean growled.

"You don't have to trust them, Aaron, but you need to trust _me_," Martha interrupted, shooting Dean a glare and shooting Castiel a pleading look that he returned without expression. "We can't stop the work, just because the Master took Sam. All right? We do our part, the Doctor does his, and Sam is part of the Doctor's plan, I _promise_ you. And Dean and Castiel are with me. They go where I go, and I'm not letting them set out there alone where the Toclaphane could find them."

A quick silencing gesture behind her back cut off Castiel's inevitable protest that he could take Dean somewhere safe instantaneously. It would not be especially helpful in arguing her point.

Aaron's eyes were bright and strange as he said, "You keep saying the same things, Miss Jones. But if that's how you feel, then maybe the three of you should just get gone."

"Aaron!" The woman who'd opened the door for them gasped, and took his arm in a strong grip. "You can't say that to Martha Jones. We owe her hospitality, and we owe her trust. She and her friends are welcome here."

"I really think you ought to go," Aaron said, staring at Martha, and Martha's stomach began to knot because what was she missing here?

Suddenly Castiel's free hand was on _her_ shoulder, and when she turned, the angel's expression was dark with alarm. "I believe he's right," Cas said. "Martha, we ought to go."

"What—" Martha began, but was cut off by the doors to the bunker slamming open.

Doors to a fall-out shelter don't slam open, Martha thought vaguely as she turned around in slow motion.

There were five of them. _Five_. Their eyes blacked out, triumphant little smirks on their faces, crackling with power, and the humans behind Martha and Dean cried out and cowered. Even Martha felt a surge of panic that she knew wasn't entirely her own.

Archangel. _Dammit_. The Master had programmed a more intense fear of demons into the network as well, not only a fear of him and of the Toclaphane.

But where had they been, all this time? If there were still demons left on Earth, why hadn't Martha run into them before?

"Well," the first demon, in the body of a pretty young woman, said gleefully. "If we don't just have the platinum package here. Martha Jones, the Righteous Man, _and_ the angel who pulled him out? It's not even my birthday."

Martha was kind of waiting for a one-liner from Dean, but none was forthcoming, so she turned and glanced at him.

He was pale, trembling very slightly, his eyes fixed on the demons. And Martha remembered how fresh out of Hell he was. The last time he'd seen a creature like this, he'd been at its mercy, which was, Martha was sure, in short supply.

She saw Castiel, without taking his eyes off of his adversaries, gesture gently towards Dean, and she saw Dean relax just a bit. He looked over at Cas, surprised, grateful. Martha suddenly felt like she was intruding, and turned back to the demons, folding her arms over her chest. "I was told you lot had all zapped back downstairs," she said. "Didn't quite make it by the deadline?"

The demon who'd spoken laughed. "We got a better offer," she replied. "Work for the Master, get free range down here, and, _finally_, a place of power over the humans. Really, a better deal than Hell was offering. The Master sent us to find you...the Righteous Man and his angel are just icing on the cake." She grinned, biting her lip seductively, and met Dean's eyes. "Remember me, Dean-o? Probably not. It was early on. But we had some good times down there, me and you."

"The Master doesn't have any loyalty to you," Martha said, stepping forward to take the demon's attention away from Dean. "He'll use you and throw you away, and then he's going to destroy the planet and everyone on it—you included. You can't get back to Hell, you know that, right? Because the rest of the universe has sealed us off. Pending _extinction_."

The demon shrugged casually. "Loyalty's not an issue for us," she said. "I don't need his loyalty. That's why I plan to stay very, very valuable to him." She snapped her fingers, and the other demons stepped forward, making their way slowly towards Martha, Dean, and Castiel.

Martha realized that at this point in time, they didn't have Ruby's knife, and Dean didn't have the Colt, and suddenly she was very worried.

"And by the way," the first demon added, striding over to Aaron, who stood in the front of the group of rebels. "Trying to warn them away, after all the work your friends did to get Martha here and contact us? That's no team spirit."

Martha winced, finally, too late, understanding the odd tone of Aaron's voice, the way he looked so panicked as he tried to bully them into leaving. "Leave him alone," she shouted, but the demon ignored her and walked right up to Aaron, placing her hands on either side of his head. "Cas!" Martha cried.

Castiel stepped forward to stop the demon, but before he could raise his hand to smite her, she'd snapped Aaron's neck.

A handful of screams pierced the air, but for the most part, the gathered humans were still silent, staring in horror at Aaron's body and the demon responsible for it. Castiel grabbed the demon by the collar, pressing his palm against her forehead.

"It has been many years since we walked the Earth," he growled, "but it ill benefits your kind to forget us. You should not have hurt that boy."

The demon opened her mouth to say something back, but her mouth continued to open as her eyes widened and light poured out from each feature, electricity dancing beneath her skin as she screamed. Castiel released her, and she crumpled to the floor.

The other four charged, and Dean reached into his pack, grabbing his flask of holy water and another container that he threw at Martha. She uncapped it, and immediately began to pour the salt into a barrier between them and the demons. Castiel took one demon down immediately with another palm to the forehead, but one grabbed Dean by the arm and threw him into the wall.

"Dean!" Martha screamed, and Dean tossed some of the holy water onto the demon's face. It shrieked in pain and fell backwards, allowing Dean time to retreat into the safety of the salt line.

"Exorcizamus te," he gasped,

"Omnis immundis spiritus," Martha joined, and he stared at her, his face pale under a sheen of sweat, and gave her a watery smile as they recited the exorcism together.

Martha shielded her eyes from the bright light of Castiel smiting two of the remaining four demons, but kept chanting, and as she and Dean shouted _audi nos_ in unison, the last demons were cast back to Hell.

Or, as Martha realized when she looked up, maybe not.

They were writhing on the floor, the thick black smoke pouring from their mouths, but it wasn't leaving. It stopped at the floor as though it presented a barrier to the metaphysical essence of the demon. Which it shouldn't, Martha was pretty sure.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at the sight, and strode over to the demons. He pressed his palms against their heads, and shoved down, causing their faces to erupt into light. The smoke returned into their bodies, the light flared, and all was silent.

Once the demons were dead, Castiel stayed kneeling by the bodies of their hosts, and Martha and Dean ran up to him. Martha put tentative hands on his shoulder and arm, bending down to look at his face. Dean just sort of hovered uncomfortably on the angel's other side, obviously wanting to help but not sure what to do. "Are you all right?" Martha asked.

"I'm unharmed," Castiel replied, his voice rougher than usual. "But...perhaps, given that Hell and Heaven alike are closed to the Earth at this time, an exorcism is not the most efficient method of disposing of demons. Nobody in or out, as you said, Martha."

Martha and Dean shared a look, and Martha laughed quietly. "Yeah. Suppose not."

Dean looked out at the crowd, and said softly, "So they sold us out."

"Seems like it," Martha replied.

"What do we do?"

Martha looked up at him, over to the resistance, and back at Dean. She shrugged and sighed, a sound that started at her core. "I don't know, Dean. Nothing. I can guess what happened. Saxon has someone—probably several people. Their kids. Someone. And they're just trying to keep them safe. And if Saxon's got demons on his payroll, they're in more danger than I'd thought."

She straightened, and she and Dean helped Castiel to his feet. The rebels watched them warily, fearfully, but Martha just led Dean and Castiel out of the bunker.

The woman who'd opened the door for them, the one who'd tried to stop Aaron from warning them, touched Martha's arm as she ushered the others out. Martha turned. "I'm so sorry," the woman whispered. "We still believe in you."

"Not me," Martha said firmly. "The Doctor. Believe in the Doctor."

"We will," the woman promised.

Martha looked back into the bunker, and pressed her lips together. "And you give Aaron a proper burial," she said. The woman paled, but nodded. "He died bravely. More bravely than most people live."

Martha stepped out, not looking behind her, because Martha Jones never looked back. Not anymore.

When she reached Dean and Castiel, both were watching her carefully. Dean said, "Well? What do we do now?"

_Rest_, Martha wished she could say. _Sleep. Stop_.

"The work," Martha replied. "We do the work."

And she started off as she always did; but at least, this time, not alone.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: So I realized that we were still in September, and the Year that Never Was is...a year, so I needed to move this thing along. I've got some pretty fun scenes in the works for once we reunite our heroes, but we've got to get to that point. I hope this works as a semi-graceful literary montage!

* * *

After the incident at the bunker, Dean and Martha and Castiel didn't stay in any one place very long.

They went from one place to another, stopping wherever there was a pocket of resistance and leaving as soon as Martha was done with the story—sometimes staying long enough for dinner. They'd camp out wherever Castiel deemed it safe enough, lighting small fires if they hadn't caught dinner with the resistance. Moving from one place to another, never quite safe, never quite relaxed.

It felt like home.

Dean settled into a rhythm with an ease that he hadn't expected, not after spending longer in Hell than he'd spent on Earth. But he knew where to find food, how to best build a fire so that it would be as little noticeable as possible, how to find shelter and keep safe from the elements and natural predators alike. While he knew that Castiel would be able to handle any bears or mountain lions that came their way, it still made him feel better, more useful, to protect them preemptively.

Martha, on the road for four months at this point, was the perfect Hunting partner—or at least the perfect camping partner. She was quiet when she needed to be, efficient and effective, and knew when there was time for small talk and seemed to have a sixth sense as to when Dean needed a little joke or a little verbal sparring. She had an easy smile and the generous, self-sacrificing spirit necessary for a mission like this.

It was almost like Hunting with Sammy. She wasn't Sammy, and she never would be, but they were gonna get Sammy back anyway so that didn't matter. But traveling with her, working with her, trusting her—

—because Dean did trust her. He didn't want to, and he rebelled against it sometimes, and she seemed to be okay with that. It was precisely that understanding, the way that she didn't push him for things he couldn't give, the way she bore his distrust and his biting remarks and his pushing her farther and farther away from him...the way she always came back, like a bad penny. That was why Dean found himself trusting her.

Martha Jones cared about him, and she knew him. She said he always pushed away people who cared about him, but that she wouldn't let him do it to her. She said she wasn't going to go away.

And freshly risen from Hell, Dean needed somebody to stay with him. And Martha didn't seem like she was going anywhere.

So slowly, over the course of weeks and months walking with Martha across the country, Dean was feeling himself open up to her, and it scared the crap out of him. It wasn't right. Martha's last name wasn't Winchester, and it wasn't Singer, and he hadn't opened up to anyone but his dad, his brother, and Bobby since his mom died. Twenty-three years. But Martha _listened_, and Martha sat with him, and Martha didn't pry at him and she didn't try to undo the stitches he'd so desperately and flimsily sewn up the wounds from Hell with. In fact, if anything, she was helping to sew them up better.

So he walked with her, and he argued with her.

"I don't understand why we're not going to get Sammy," he said, and it wasn't the first time, and something about Martha's exasperated sigh told him that she knew it wouldn't be the last. He threw a bit of brush into the fire, and turned to look at Martha for her reaction. The fire reflected in her dark eyes, but other than the sigh, she didn't act like she'd heard him at all. So he tried another familiar tactic. "Cas can just zap us up there and zap us right back down!"

Ignoring Castiel's brief attempt to interject, Martha replied, still staring at the fire, "And then we're back at square one. The Doctor's got a plan, Dean, and it involves Sam, and it involves both of them being up there. I don't like it any more than you do, because guess what? My mum and my dad and Tish aren't part of the plan. They're collateral. The Master's not gonna hurt Sam, because he's _important_."

The bitterness in her voice was inescapable, and it made Dean back down for a second, but this was his brother they were talking about. He'd gone to Hell for Sam. He wasn't gonna be cowed off of a rescue mission because Martha was mad at him. "You don't _know_ the Doctor has a plan, and more than that, you don't _know_ that Sam's a part of it. And I'd sleep better knowing my brother was safe."

"And the rest of the planet will sleep better when we all do our jobs and save it from extinction," Martha snapped back, and turned around, digging in her pack and pulling out a lightweight blanket. It was November now, and the weather in Illinois was brutal. "I don't want to fight again, Dean. I'm exhausted."

"We're all tired," Dean said. And knowing what was coming, he added, a bit testy, "Except for you, Cas. We know. Super angel mojo and you don't get tired and blah blah."

"I wasn't going to mention it," Cas replied, his tone a bit curt. "And your quotation is inaccurate. I have never used the word _mojo_ to describe my powers, and I have never said _blah, blah_."

Martha's and Dean's eyes met almost immediately, and they both grinned in synch. "I got the angel to say _blah blah_," Dean said, giddy and triumphant.

Martha, still grinning, threw his pillow at him. "Go to sleep, you wanker," she ordered, and curled up under her meagre blanket. Dean ignored Castiel's affronted look at the human's apparent betrayal, and instead threw the angel a pillow, too, and laid down on his.

"I don't require sleep," Castiel said stiffly.

"Just lay down, Cas, it'll make us feel better," Dean replied, his voice already heavy with sleep. It was nice to have a 24/7 lookout, and to not have to take turns on the watch. Didn't mean that it was less creepy for Cas to be constantly watching _them_.

So the angel, still glaring at Dean, settled down on his back and rested his head on the pillow, keeping a sharp eye around them.

And Dean fell asleep between his angel and the Savior of the Earth.

Dean walked with Martha, and he had chick-flick moments with her.

"It's just that taking care of Sammy has always been my job," he said, beating aside the brush with a stick as they walked through the marsh in late December. "I can't, now. And it scares the hell out of me."

"I know," Martha replied, swatting a palmetto with her own stick. "Believe me. It's hard for me, too."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "I remember. Your family's up there, too. It's just—"

"It's not just that," Martha interjected. "Sam's my friend, too. And I know that it's nothing like what the two of you mean to each other, because really, I've never met two people closer. But Sam means a lot to me, Dean. Don't tell me you haven't thought about how well we'd get along."

He couldn't say that, because he _had_. He compared Martha to Sam constantly, and not just because it was weird to have someone else as his traveling partner. Martha was a lot like Sam in a lot of ways. She and Castiel would have long, in-depth discussions about aliens, which Cas seemed to have a little trouble following, and they'd talk about sigils and lore and share stories of the Doctor. Then she'd turn right around and crack the filthiest jokes with Dean that he'd ever heard, always just a _little_ too double-ententre for Castiel to get offended, although the angel always looked like he had an idea that he wouldn't like what was being said if he understood it. He figured if Sam ever got to meet Cas, it would be pretty much the same. Once Sam got to meet Cas, that is. When it happened. Because it was going to.

"When it all happens to you, you'll understand," Martha continued. "I mean, if it does. When it does. I don't know. But when the Doctor fixes this and we all get to start over, you'll see. It's brilliant, Dean. The lot of us? We're _brilliant_."

And she'd sling her arm around his shoulders, which was an awkward position for someone so much shorter than him, and beam up at him and he believed her.

Damn it. He believed every word she said.

Dean walked with Martha and he let her make him talk.

Actually, this particular time, he _sat_ with Martha. Castiel had gone, scouting the area to make sure that there was no threat imminent. They'd built a little fire, because February was still cold, and they were each huddled under their own blankets while they tried to heat up some old MRE's over the pitiful fire.

"So what d'you think about Castiel?" Martha asked, in that way that said she was asking about something that worried her in her other timeline. Dean was, by now, pretty good at recognizing those tells. A little twitch of her right eye, cracking her knuckles behind her back, compulsively pulling her hair out of and back into a ponytail...and that hesitant darkness in her voice when she spoke about it.

When he asked about how Sam was doing, in her timeline, while Dean was in Hell.

When he asked about why the demons wanted him in Hell in the first place. (She didn't know, she said, and he couldn't even be offended by the lie, she was so obviously scared of the answer. It created a gaping, icy hole in the pit of his stomach, but he didn't press her.)

Now, when she talked about him and Cas.

Dean fidgeted, shoving his food a little farther into the fire. "What do you mean?" he stalled.

"I mean, you'd mentioned a while ago that you were uncomfortable around him," she said. "That changed any?"

Dean shrugged. "I guess. I don't know. He's..." Dean faltered, glaring at Martha. "I don't want to talk about my _feelings_, Martha. I see through you."

Martha gave an exaggerated sigh, throwing her head back in a fit of drama. "You _never_ want to talk about _anything_ but Hunting, Dean," she complained. "You'll have to eventually! You can't keep these things bottled up."

"What do you want me to say?" Dean demanded. "I mean, he's the guy who pulled me out of Hell. Which, while I don't remember getting pulled out, means he went down there to find me. He _went into Hell_ to find me and get me out. And now he's tagging along with me and you on this trip, like he doesn't have better things to do. An _angel_. Like he doesn't have better things to do. So what do I think about him? I think he doesn't make any sense because things like this don't happen in my life. Okay? That's what I think about Castiel, Martha."

And it wasn't until then that Dean felt that they weren't alone. He quietly placed his food on the ground and buried his face in his hands.

"I'll leave you boys alone," Martha said sweetly, and retreated.

Castiel stood hesitantly at the edge of the light cast by the fire, his head tilted like he tended to do. "Dean—"

"You don't—" Dean interrupted, not taking his face out of his hands. "Damn it, I can't even say I didn't mean it."

"Good things do happen, Dean," Castiel said quietly. "To people who deserve it."

"Right," Dean snorted.

"People like you," Castiel finished, and Dean fell silent. "Little as you may wish to believe it, for whatever psychological reason, you deserved to be saved, Dean. And you deserve to be protected. I would not be here otherwise, and neither would Martha."

"I'm a drunk, a liar, and a womanizer," Dean muttered. "I let my kid brother die and when I was given the choice, I broke, and I...in Hell, I..."

"I am aware," Castiel said, not unkindly.

"I don't know what part of that means I deserve to be saved," Dean said.

Castiel sighed and walked over to Dean, sitting in an ungainly manner next to the Hunter, who didn't move over, but let the angel sit as close as he wanted.

There was a part of him that knew he needed to hear it, and a larger part that knew Martha wasn't going to stop doing this until he had this conversation with Castiel.

"I understand you, Dean," Castiel said heavily. "Better than you imagine. When I brought you back, I touched your soul—"

"Okay," Dean said, grimacing, "this is just, can't we say that a different way? I—"

"And I saw you," Castiel pressed on, frowning at Dean in disapproval. "And knew you, for who you are. I rebuilt your body and placed your soul within it. I don't understand everything about you; I don't understand the masks you put on to disguise your true self, or the way you hide the truth of you from the people who care. You are a Righteous Man, Dean, and that should never be hidden."

"A righteous man," Dean scoffed, but his tone was gentler than he intended.

"A Righteous Man," Castiel affirmed, and Dean could almost hear the capital letters this time around. "Even if you think otherwise, consider the people that associate with you. My Father commanded your rescue from Hell. The Doctor considers you a friend and a key ally. You are Martha's only friend, and she is content. If you will not trust yourself, perhaps you can trust the people you claim to be inferior to."

"Stop," Dean breathed, and Castiel was quiet. "Please."

They sat in silent for a while, Dean staring at the fire, determined not to look at Castiel. He picked at the MRE, suddenly no longer hungry.

But he found that his stomach wasn't the only part of him that had quieted, and when he went to sleep that night, he didn't dream and he didn't wake until Martha shook him because it was time to go.

Dean walked with Martha, and he made _her_ talk.

"I don't know how much longer I can take it," she said, her voice barely above a breath, as they waited for the resistance to gather around them. "I mean, once this is done. It's hard, Dean. Traveling with the Doctor. There's no rest and there's no safety and god, why am I—sorry, Castiel—why am I even talking to you about this? I'm sorry. Like you don't know about that." She looked down and studied her fingers as though they could reveal the secrets of the universe to her.

Dean leaned back in his chair, late March sunshine streaming in through the dusty windows. "It's okay," he said. "I get it. And it's...it makes sense. You weren't born into this."

"It's not fair that you were," Martha murmured. "And you and Sam, you've held up so well. The fact that the two of you still manage to be good, caring people—"

"Don't think everyone would agree with you there," Dean interjected, a bitter chuckle escaping him.

Martha shrugged. "Don't care what everybody else thinks," she said plainly. "_I_ think you're good people. The Doctor thinks you're good people. Obviously Castiel thinks you're a good person. So three people who've seen a lot more of humanity and the universe than your average pedestrian agree." She made a halfhearted attempt at a grin. "So I'd agree with us."

"You hung with us for a while," Dean said, changing the subject. "Obviously you've got what it takes. Hell, I've figured that out already. What can't you take?"

Martha looked down again, and said, "I want things I can't have, Dean. A normal life. White picket fence and settling down."

"You can still have that," Dean said, but broke off when he saw the tears threatening in Martha's eyes.

"Not with him," she whispered.

Dean didn't have anything to say to that, so he just put his arm around her shoulders.

"There's no normal life for him," she continued. "No normal life _with_ him. And I'm so tired of being scared that something's going to happen, and I'm gonna lose him. I don't think I could do that." She ran her hands through her hair, propping her elbows on the table in front of her. "I don't think I'd survive that."

"He's tough," Dean said softly, and Martha barked a laugh. "Hey, come on. You know it's true."

"It's not gonna work," Martha said, shaking her head. "And it's okay. But I can't keep...I can't keep pretending, you know? Pretending that I don't know. Pretending that it doesn't kill me." She took the cup that had been placed in front of her, full of some of the camp's only clean water. She smiled wearily down into her reflection in the cup. "I can walk away, I think, when this is done. It'll be my last chance. If I wait longer I won't be strong enough."

Dean wondered if that was what Sam was thinking when he left for college.

"Then you do what you need to do," he said. "He'll understand."

"I know he will," Martha breathed. "That's the worst bit."

The rebels gathered around them, and they had to put it aside, but Martha squeezed Dean's hand under the table and Dean felt a warmth in his chest, knowing that he'd helped, just a little.

Dean Winchester walked with Martha Jones, and it was like home, and he realized that there was somebody—there were _multiple_ somebodies—in the world who hadn't been saddled with him since birth who cared about what happened to him, who cared about his happiness, who listened to him when he needed to talk and didn't press him when he didn't and talked to him because they wanted his opinion and they wanted him to know what was going on with them.

Dean walked with Martha, and he talked to her because he wanted to. Or because he had to. Or because it was too quiet.

Dean walked with Martha and he let himself begin to believe that Castiel was right; that he deserved to be saved. He let himself begin to believe that he could let Castiel in and just be grateful to him.

Dean walked with Martha, and he let himself begin to forgive the Doctor, and to trust that the Doctor and Sam knew what they were doing—that somebody else could take care of everyone, for once.

Dean walked with Martha for a year, and it was the most peaceful year he'd ever known.


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: So I am not super happy about how short this chapter is, but school is kind of eating my lunch right now, so I figured a short chapter was better than no chapter. The next chapter isn't clear in my head yet so it might be four or five days before I get it out. Please do not hate me, and I guarantee I'm not abandoning this story, it's just gonna take a little longer. But I've already got the end figured out and partially written and I almost made myself cry, so it's not something that I can keep myself from sharing, so it will get done.

The next chapter will be longer. I promise!

* * *

Sam Winchester had never deluded himself into thinking that he was a normal kid.

Even before he knew about the demon blood (Time Lord blood) stuff, he'd known it wasn't _normal_ for little boys to live out of motel rooms and 60's muscle cars. He knew it wasn't normal for dads to leave their sons alone in a strange town when neither of them was in double digits yet. When he hit eight and he learned the truth of what his dad did, he knew that that wasn't normal, either. He knew it wasn't normal to be raised by your big brother, to never have a home, to be able to strip and clean a sawed-off by nine. He knew none of that was normal, and that, by extension, neither was he.

However, there had been little in life quite as _not-normal_ as having a Time Lord in his head.

_Just checking in, Samuel. Are you all right today?_

_Stay strong, Samuel, he's especially angry today, which must mean that there's some good news on the resistance._

_Did you do your meditation today, Samuel? We're getting down to the line and you and I need to be as close as possible to that Network._

Sam had taken to being Saxon's second-in-command like a bird to water, but he'd managed to wrangle a few advantages from it and played off the rest as awkward human ignorance, which Saxon seemed to find frustrating but endearing. He'd been able to get up-close and hands-on with the Archangel Network, and found that with a little effort, he was able to tap into it. Dully at first, vaguely, but eventually with greater clarity and acuity. And as that skill improved, so did his ability to connect to the Doctor.

It was alarming, at first. Naturally. He wasn't used to having another voice in his head. Visions, sure, but they would come and go and he was always third party to them. (Well, except for the one time with the Doctor—and of course it would be the Doctor.) With this, he'd be having a perfectly normal interior monologue, and then suddenly there'd be commentary on it.

_You don't have to worry about Dean, Samuel. I promise you he's in the best hands possible. And Martha is going to try to find them; if he's not too well-hidden, they'll have taken up together. If he is too well-hidden, then...well, that takes care of that, doesn't it?_

Sam knew by now, had heard from the Doctor, about the truth behind his brother's rescue from Hell. About the angel (the _angel, _Castiel, his brother's savior) who had descended into the Pit and dragged Dean back to Earth just before the planet was sealed. How it wasn't Saxon at all, which, now that he was thinking straight, how could it have been? How Saxon had only known that that Dean's resurrection was going to happen thanks to invading the Doctor's mind, how he'd used it against Sam to convince him to join him, and that made Sam angrier than anything. Almost angry enough to blow his cover once he learned the truth, but the Doctor's calming voice in his head talked him down from confronting Saxon and ruining everything.

Sam spent a lot of his time calming himself down, lately, and he had to admit that it was getting easier as the days went by. He spent most of his time in meditation, or with the Doctor, when he wasn't giving Saxon deliberately bad advice or listening closely to the snippets of disorganized plan that he revealed. Even then, sometimes he had to have the Doctor whisper in his ear reassurances or a reminder to breathe or a joke about Saxon that Sam only halfway understood but had to suppress a smile at nonetheless. Saxon kept him around as much as possible, but it wasn't hard to beg off due to feeling poorly or something along those lines. He'd built up quite the reputation as a sickly young man, but luckily it was usually Tish who brought him his medication and he just threw it out.

The blood was a different story.

He'd rejected the plan outright at first, insisting that the Doctor didn't know what he was asking. But the Doctor was firm, and apologetic—but mostly firm.

_It's the only way, Samuel_, he'd said, _and I am so, so sorry. If there was another viable avenue I'd explore it, but there's not. If you can connect to Archangel you can rally the troops for us when it comes down to the wire. I can't connect to it like you can; it's designed for a human neurophysiology, and you retain enough of your natural neural makeup to be able to link into it. But you need more power. You can't do it on your own, and I can't do it at all. It won't hurt you, Samuel, and I'll be there with you to take you down from it when this is all over. I won't let you be hurt. I need you to trust me_.

And Sam just couldn't bring himself to do anything but trust the Doctor. For all that six months ago he would have shot him full of rock salt as quickly as look at him, then moved on to silver knives and holy water when that failed, Sam couldn't not trust him. He understood Sam, down to the weirdest, freakiest parts of him, and down to the most basic, core, mundane humanity of him, and he didn't judge him or blame him. The Doctor cared about him, and about Dean, and Bobby. That was something he hadn't come across much in his life—strangers who cared.

It wasn't that he didn't have questions, though, and it wasn't that he could leave off his natural Winchester tendency to push a good thing until it inevitably plummetted off a cliff. So once the connection was steady enough, first thing after he'd agreed to the Doctor's insane plan of teaming up with Saxon, he'd said, _I did what you wanted. Now tell me why you wouldn't bring Dean back_.

_Samuel—_ the Doctor had begun, but Sam wasn't having it.

_Saxon brought him back. He's back. He's out of Hell and he's safe, Doctor, and if Saxon can do it, why couldn't you? And was it that you couldn't, or you wouldn't? Because honestly I couldn't give less of a damn about your precious paradoxes when my brother was being tortured in Hell._

_Samuel._ The Doctor's voice was firm in his head and seemed to echo around his skull, silencing Sam's angry thoughts. Silencing all of his thoughts, really, and Sam marveled at the quiet—it was rare enough in his life. _First of all. If I could have saved Dean, I would have. In a heartbeat. No matter what it cost me. And you know that. And _I_ know that you're angry, but let me tell you right now that we are all we have right now, you and I, and this is no time to lash out at each other in anger. We need to stick together._

_Big talk from the guy who _didn't_ have a brother in Hell._ Sam sounded sullen and he knew it, but couldn't bring himself to care much.

When the Doctor replied, which took a moment, his voice in Sam's head was calm and restrained. _Saxon didn't bring your brother back, as I told you. He simply knew that Dean would be back in September of 2008, because he took it from my mind. Why do you think it took him so long to bring you here? Did you think he didn't know where you were?_

Sam didn't have an answer for that. He hadn't thought about it, in all honesty.

_He waited until he had leverage over you. Until he could dangle Dean in front of you like a prize, because he knows that you'd do anything to keep your brother safe. But he didn't bring Dean back. He couldn't. No Time Lord could._

_Then who?_

The Doctor sighed deeply, and Sam wondered with amusement why the Time Lord had decided to take the effort to transmit that sound into Sam's head. _You're not going to believe me._

_Doctor, you know me. I'm pretty gullible._

_An angel named Castiel pulled your brother out of Hell. And he is protecting him right now. Dean is safe from Saxon and...well, if I know Castiel, and I do, from everything. He won't let anything happen to him._

Sam wanted to be a little bit tougher about it. A little less one-note, maybe, although he wasn't sure who he was trying to show off for. As if the Doctor didn't already know that the only thing he cared about in this screwed-up version of Earth that Saxon had created was his brother's safety, now that he was back on it.

But safe in the privacy of his room, Sam just started to cry instead.

Everything was a little bit easier after that. This Castiel guy, this _angel_, was keeping Dean safe, so while Saxon kept making noises about finding Dean for Sam and bringing him to the _Valiant_ and reuniting the brothers, Sam was free to make noises back about how he wasn't going to wait forever and if anything had happened to Dean there'd be hell to pay without having to actually _worry_ about it. Saxon wasn't going to find Dean. He was going to keep wasting resources trying, apparently, which was great in and of itself, but he wouldn't be able to hurt Dean.

Dean was safe.

Which left Sam with a lot of free time that he would have otherwise spent ineffectually agonizing over Dean's safety or lack thereof; time that he spent picking his way into Archangel. He knew he had to be careful, because Saxon was linked into the network, but he quickly realized that it was on a different...psychic wavelength, for lack of a better term. (There wasn't actually a lack of a better term, but the Doctor had spewed some long string of words that Sam had replied to with silence before sighing and describing it as a psychic wavelength.)

He tiptoed around it anyway, metaphorically speaking, brushing against threads of consciousness and testing to see what he could do. He couldn't communicate with anyone, not the way he could communicate with the Doctor, but it seemed that he could _suggest_ things. Push an idea a little bit towards a person. Towards several. Towards a lot, eventually, and after about six months of trying he knew, he was _confident_, that when the time came, he could push an idea towards everyone on the network.

Everyone in the world.

And the Doctor said that it wasn't going to be complicated. When the countdown happened—because the Doctor said Saxon couldn't do anything but the absolute most dramatic thing possible, so there would be a countdown to his end game—Sam was to act. Sam wanted to do it earlier, to get it over with, but the Doctor insisted that Martha needed more time, and that when she was done she would get back to London and show up on the _Valiant_ to let them know the world had been told.

Sam wondered about Martha, about the Companion the Doctor had sent out on her own, on foot, to spread the Gospel of Gallifrey. (That's how Sam thought of it, and it irritated the Doctor, so whenever the Doctor asked Sam to do an especially heinous meditation practice he would use that phrase as one of his breaths and just grin as the Doctor seethed.) He knew he'd meet her eventually, but did kind of wonder how it was going to work, with her knowing so much more about their friendship. Having to tread so carefully around the issue of his addiction, being the sole keeper of that knowledge (and keeping it out of his mind while connected to the Doctor was no easy feat), he didn't envy her the burden.

He didn't like to think about it. About someone else down in the trenches, doing the heavy lifting and the hard labor while he sat up on the _Valiant_ and ate well and was treated like a prince. He didn't like to think about Dean down there, even with his angelic protector, not knowing whether or not Sam was safe, not knowing what was going on at all.

He especially didn't like to think that Dean had seen any of Saxon's broadcasts with him. He liked to think about that so little that his mind repelled the thought and he couldn't do more than glance at the idea before shutting it down.

The Doctor estimated that Martha would need about a year from the beginning of her journey, which was late May. Sam paced himself accordingly, not stretching his abilities too far, never going full-throttle because he didn't want to attract Saxon's attention and he didn't want to blow out before the time was right. But he knew how much power he was using. And he knew that when the time did come, he'd be ready.

And in the meantime, through his guilt, Sam found himself relaxing a little. Saxon wouldn't do anything to him, and was only growing more and more anxious about being unable to fulfill his end of the bargain—bring Dean back safe to Sam, and keep him out of harm's way. He found himself growing used to the Doctor's running commentary, and sometimes even found it enjoyable.

And on a level that he could barely identify other than feeling slightly of _Dean_, he felt safe with the Doctor in his head.

Protected. Guarded. Loved, even.

The Doctor rattled on any time that Sam invited him to, and sometimes when he didn't, about anything and everything because the Doctor was as lonely as Sam. He talked to Sam about Gallifrey, about his previous regenerations, about adventures he'd had with other Companions. (Not Rose. Never Rose.) He tried to pry out of Sam what he'd been doing since Sam had last seen the Doctor, but Sam demurred, only offering the vaguest of details. Trying to get Dean out of Hell. Hunting. Comforting Bobby. Or he'd offer particular details, like of a specific hunt or a day he'd spent with Bobby or a book he found while researching. He hated keeping this secret from the Doctor, but he convinced himself that it's what the Doctor would want.

The integrity of Time and all that.

But as the weeks turned into months and the months approached May of 2009, Sam found himself thinking that he'd miss the Doctor in his head when this was all over. He'd never felt so accepted, so understood, in his life.

But as always his thoughts turned to his brother. Dean had been out of Hell since September, and had been traveling with Castiel since then.

Sam hoped that Dean felt as safe and accepted with Castiel as he did with the Doctor.

And when this was all over, when they'd beaten Saxon and made things right, maybe they could stay together. Maybe they could just be a team, all of them, Sam and the Doctor and his Martha and Bobby and Dean and his angel.

And in the meantime Sam meditated, and reached out, and felt power blossom in his chest.

Out, two, three, four.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Martha Jones

Author's Note: UGH, finally. This chapter just did not want to be written. We have lots of action and drama and hilarity and other things ahead, and hopefully the next chapter will be easier to get out! Thanks for your patience!

* * *

Martha didn't giggle.

She didn't. Really. Not anymore. Not in a long time, as a matter of fact, and it would be really unbecoming of the Savior of the Earth to be squatting in the dirt next to a bemused angel of the Lord, who was standing with her in front of their unconscious human friend, hiding a pastry behind her back and _giggling_.

On the other hand, decorum was the last thing on her mind today.

"I don't understand what we're doing," Castiel said, very softly, having already been once reprimanded by Martha for speaking too loudly.

"It's Dean's eight-month anniversary back topside," Martha whispered back. "We're gonna celebrate."

Castiel frowned. "That is a meaningless phrase," he said. "Anniversary refers to years."

"Eight month-i-versary," Martha said carelessly. "Whatever. Point is, I thought we'd commemorate it."

A soft rustling of trench coat indicated that Castiel had crouched down next to Martha, and when she turned, she saw his eyes trained on the sleeping Hunter. "It seems a morbid thing to celebrate," he said, his gaze piercing as he studied his charge. "I would assume that Dean would not want to remember his time in the Pit, and in fact, I regret that I was unable to take those memories from him."

Martha shifted her weight, looking down at Dean herself and smiling a bit. "It's not about that," she said, and felt Castiel turn to her. "It's about...celebrating the fact that he's back. And reminding him that we haven't forgotten what he's been through. That...we're giving him permission to talk about it, if he wants to."

That seemed to take Castiel aback. "Dean must know that I would attend to him," the angel said, sounding a little hurt.

Martha put a hand on his arm, and Castiel stared at it, puzzled. "He does," she said, and the angel's bright blue gaze turned to meet hers. "He knows. He just...he's Dean. Sometimes you have to remind him, even when it should be obvious."

There was evidently no argument from Castiel on that point, as the angel simply went back to studying Dean. The look on his face was strange even for Castiel, and Martha thought about asking him about it. Before she had a chance to, he said, without turning to her, "Thank you, Martha."

Martha stilled. "What for?" she asked.

"Dean..." and here Castiel actually hesitated, _hesitated_ like a human, and had to start over. "Dean was resistant to me, when we met. Untrusting, angry, fearful. I don't know what changed, but I know you were part of it. Your trust in me gave him..._permission_...to do the same. For that, I am grateful."

Martha didn't have the words to respond to that.

"He prays now," Castiel said thoughtfully. "Before he falls asleep. I can hear it. He didn't pray before."

"Well, I can't take credit for an increase in _prayer_," Martha said. "Not exactly the kind of faith I'm peddling, Cas. No offense."

Castiel shook his head. "It's not that, Martha. It's something simpler than that."

But Martha was apparently not going to find out what it was, because Dean chose that moment to groan in a very loud, un-Hunter-like manner, and roll over. Martha picked up the pastry from the ground and hid it behind her back, her eyes shining with excitement. Dean blinked heavily, squinting up at Martha and Castiel. "Th'hell?" he muttered, passing a hand over his face. "Wh're you two doing?"

Martha couldn't contain her grin, and bounced on her heels as she said, "Happy anniversary, Dean!"

He didn't sit up, but instead laid his head back on the ground and stared up at her in sleepy confusion. "The hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Eight months back here, on the road," she clarified. His eyes clouded for a moment, but she'd expected that, and pulled the _pièce de résistance_ of the celebration. His expression cleared instantly and he sat up, unbelieving gaze shifting from Martha to the pie in her hands and back.

"How the hell did you get your hands on that?" he choked, his hands hovering around the pie as though afraid that if he touched it, the mirage would be broken.

"Cas zapped me back to the last resistance HQ and I...borrowed the kitchen," Martha said. She stuck the pie a little farther towards Dean, and he took it reverently. Martha glanced sideways at Castiel, who was watching the proceedings with the air of an anthropologist witnessing some bizarre tribal ritual.

Then, abruptly, something occurred to Dean and he made a face that was halfway between panic and aggravation. "Wait, the two of you left me here, sleeping, so you could go play Holly Homemaker at an HQ kitchen?" he asked, voice full of umbrage.

"Technically, yes," Martha replied.

"Not unwarded," Castiel amended, shooting Martha a disapproving glare. "I made sure that you would be safe. You will notice, upon standing, that you were asleep in the middle of a Devil's Trap, and Martha left you the Doctor's key so that you would be invisible to the Toclaphane."

Dean bolted upright, staring around himself at the elaborate Devil's Trap Castiel had willed into the ground around him. The gouges in the earth probably went down a foot; it was nothing the wind could carry away. Then he reached down into his shirt and pulled out Martha's Yale key. Some of the flush that had been rising in his face lessened, and he pulled the chain off from around his neck and handed it back to Martha. "Seems kind of stupid," he grumbled, but there wasn't much heat in it, and Martha noticed the half-smile he wasn't able to completely resist as he looked down at the pie, sitting again. "What kind?" he asked.

"Apple," Martha said, settling down as well, cross-legged in front of Dean. Castiel sat with them, and Martha pulled out her hunting knife. Dean made a face at it, and she laughed. "I cleaned it, Dean, I'm not gonna sully your pie with guts."

Dean shrugged in an obvious attempt to play off his reaction, and took a piece of the pie when Martha handed it to him. He smiled fondly at it, and just as Martha was about to take a bite, he said, "Wouldn't be the first time I got my knives crossed up, though."

Martha pulled the pie away from her mouth, scowling at him. "Dean, that is really gross," she cried, laughing despite herself, as Dean smiled a self-satisfied smile and shoved a large portion of his piece into his mouth. Martha swatted him before taking a bite.

The amicable silence lasted for most of the duration of the pie, and Dean even talked Castiel into eating a piece (which was met by the angel with unimpressed silence), but once they were done, Dean sighed. "So what's the real occasion," he asked, staring up at the cloudless sky.

Martha furrowed her brow, then shrugged. "Really, eight months of having you back," she replied. "Doesn't that warrant a little pie?"

"Sure," Dean said, "but we didn't have pie for seven months. Or six, which would have made the most sense. Half a year. Good job on not being in Hell for half a year."

"Dean," Martha began, but Dean shook his head.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said. He picked up a crumb off of the pie plate and crumbled it between his fingers, avoiding Martha's eyes. "But let's be honest."

Martha put the remainder of her piece of pie on her leg, and pressed the heel of her hand against her eye, where she could feel a headache coming on. She had a couple of evasions prepared in her mind, but when it came right down to it she didn't have the energy to lie to someone as tenacious as Dean. He'd hound her until she told the truth, so she might as well. "It's May," she said.

"Yep," Dean agreed. "Sure is."

"We're in New Zealand," Martha added.

"Also true."

"This was the last stop on our get-out-the-good-word tour," Martha confessed, and Dean stilled, his eyes finally meeting hers. "It's been a year, or near enough, since Saxon was elected. That's how long I had. The Doctor said it would take Saxon that long to build up the force he'd need. And we've been everywhere it's even remotely safe to go, and the message has been spreading. We're as ready as we're gonna be, Dean, and the Doctor won't know we've succeeded until we get up there. I'm sorry, I know it's soon—"

"Sorry?" Dean interrupted, and Martha quieted. She watched him carefully, and far from the anger or the trepidation she'd expected, he looked _thrilled_. "Martha, I've been waiting eight months for this! It's time to get up to that ship and save Sammy!" He reached out and grabbed Martha, who let out a small shout of surprise, and he hugged her tightly. "That's better than pie," he laughed, and added, "Not that the pie wasn't good."

Martha hesitantly wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him back. "It's not going to be easy," she said. "We'll be in the heart of Saxon's empire. His place of strength."

"That nobody can get up to," Dean reminded her. "I mean, it's not like he's gonna just let anybody land a plane on it, right? But we've got angel air, so he won't even see us coming."

"Doesn't mean he won't know we're there once we get there," Martha warned, pulling away from him gently. She kept her hands on his shoulders and looked over to Castiel, hovering a little ways away. "I just...want to tell you. Both of you. That whatever happens once we get there—"

"Come on, Martha," Dean groaned, but Martha squeezed his shoulder and he contented himself with an eye roll.

"Whatever happens," she repeated, "these past eight months have been some of the best of my life. As hard as it was, and as much as we suffered, traveling with you two has been..."

She broke off before the tears could overtake her, but Dean said, "Like home," and she couldn't help herself.

Giggling and crying, all in one day. Not her bravest façade, but on the eve of battle she supposed she could indulge herself.

She stood up, dusted her pants off, and reached for her pack. "I have the coordinates for the _Valiant_ here," she said, rooting through her pack as a distraction. "London's twelve hours ahead of us, so it'll be...six in the evening, over there. Not sure what the best time would be for us to arrive...when they'd be likeliest to be busy, or on short shifts, or—"

"There is not likely to be a best time," Castiel interrupted gently, and Martha kept rooting through her pack. "Saxon seems to be a paranoid man, but also egomaniacal. He will not be expecting, as Dean noted, for us to arrive in the manner that we will. And while the coordinates are useful, Martha, I do not require them, and I will find a safe place for us to land."

Martha nodded silently, keeping her eyes firmly on her pack. She didn't doubt that Castiel would be able to find a place for them to land, and she didn't doubt that he'd be able to keep them safe on the way there. But they were heading into the eye of the storm, and there was only so much that a single angel, cut off from Heaven and his brothers, could do against the entirety of UNIT and a rogue Time Lord. And after eight months of watching Dean slowly unwind and relax, of watching the way the three of them were able to interact without the kind of danger they usually faced, she was just so loathe to be the one to bring them back to the lives they were used to.

She was going to walk away from all of it when this was done, she knew, as much as it killed her to think of it. Dean and Castiel couldn't walk away.

There was nothing for them to walk back to.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped, whirling around to see Dean standing next to her, looking concerned. "Hey," he said. "Don't freak out. This is the part we're good at, right? Going in, kicking a little bad guy ass, cracking open some beers when we're done. If the Doc and Sammy already laid down the ground work for us, all we gotta do is go in and hold off the goons while they do whatever it is they're doing. We can do that, Martha. We've got that, easy."

"It's going to be dangerous," Martha murmured.

Dean just laughed. "Right, because that's weird for us," he scoffed. "Relax, Martha. We'll be fine. We'll go up and do this thing, we'll save the world again, and then we'll come back and pick up where we left off."

"That's right," Martha said, "more and better pies when we're done."

"We'll crash at Bobby's and do nothing but veg out for a week," Dean promised, and Martha cracked a smile despite herself. Dean smiled back and turned to Castiel. "Cas, you ready?"

Castiel nodded. "Are you?" he asked.

"Beam us up," Dean said by way of affirmation, and while Cas obviously didn't get the reference, he put his hands on their shoulders and shut his eyes.

The ground disappeared, and when it reappeared, the air was cold around them. Martha gripped Castiel's arm for balance, and by the way he was standing she guessed that Dean had done the same on his other side. She opened her eyes and looked around.

They were in a storage room of some kind—perhaps a pantry. The unmarked grey tins lining the steel shelves didn't help identify the place, but there was a closed door in front of them and Martha couldn't make out any sound coming from beyond it.

"Are we here?" Dean breathed, hand hovering over one of the shelves to catch himself if he started to fall.

"This is the _Valiant_," Castiel replied, his voice equally soft. "We will have to find the Doctor, Sam, and the others from here, but we are aboard."

"You got us the bulk of the way," Martha whispered. "Thank you, Castiel. Now we just have to avoid getting caught until we can—"

The door opened, and all three stowaways froze as light poured into the pantry.

Martha's eyes were still adjusting when she heard someone whisper her name. Not Dean or Castiel. But a voice she knew.

She blinked hard, and when her eyes cleared, her sister stood in front of her, a tray clutched in trembling hands and a disbelieving look on her face.

Tish.

"Tish," Martha breathed, and her sister shut the door behind her before stumbling the few steps between them and taking Martha into her arms. "Oh my god, Tish."

"I knew you'd come back," Tish whispered into her ear. "They said there was no way. But I knew you'd be back for us. The Doctor, he never stopped believing in you. And your friend Sam, he's here, he's safe, but Martha, I don't think he knows you."

"It's all right," Martha laughed. "It's okay, Tish. Mum and Dad? Are they all right?"

Tish nodded, but before she could answer Castiel's low voice cut her off. "We should be moving," he said. "They will find us if we stay."

Martha released her sister and took a step back. "Tish? Can you get us out of here?" she asked.

"Where do you need to go?" Tish replied.

Martha thought for a moment, trying to quickly accomplish the unpleasant task of prioritizing her loved ones. But she knew what was happening with the Doctor, and they needed someone who could be backup if it came down to a fight with UNIT, so she said, "To Sam. Wherever he is. Can you take us to Sam?"

Martha ignored the straightening of Dean's posture as Tish smiled. "I was headed there now. Follow me. You'll have to be quiet and hide when I tell you, but I'll get you there."

They followed Tish out of the room, clinging to walls and keeping a sharp look out, but Martha couldn't help the feeling of happiness, almost giddiness that bloomed in her chest.

With her family and friends at her side, what could the _Valiant_ or the Master throw at her that she couldn't handle?


	21. Chapter Twenty: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: Some happiness! A rare commodity in both "Supernatural" and "Doctor Who", so everybody enjoy it while they can! And I'm finding writing this very therapeutic after the new "Supernatural" season premier which just pummeled me with feelings, so I hope it's as gratifying to read as it was to write. :)

* * *

There was no logical reason for Dean to be jealous. They were going to find his brother, after all, as soon as they got out of this room. Just because he wasn't first in line for the sibling reunion was no reason to get all angsty.

But nonetheless he felt a twinge as he watched Martha embrace her sister, because a childish part of him was crying _I've waited longer_. Still, after what was essentially forty years of believing he'd never see Sammy again, he could wait another half hour. He'd wait as long as it took.

Hell, he _had_ waited as long as it took.

As they made their cautious, wary way towards Sam's room, they found themselves in a completely abandoned hallway. Apparently pretty sure of that assessment, Tish glanced backwards and whispered to Martha, "Who are your friends?"

"This is Dean, and that's Castiel," Martha whispered.

Tish's eyes widened, and she stared at Dean. "You're Dean?" she asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied, slowly, giving Cas a confused look. The angel returned it with predictable equanimity.

"Don't," Martha whispered, putting a hand on Tish's arm. The sisters shared a glance, and Martha continued, "Our timelines aren't synched. He's just met me."

"Like eight months ago," Dean protested.

There was something weird in the look Martha sent him, something fragile that quickly hardened, and she said, "But nothing that she knows about from our time together has happened for you yet, Dean. She can't tell you." She turned her gaze to her sister, and said, "You can't."

"All right," Tish whispered in return, watching her sister in what looked like concern. A series of minute gestures were shared between them—a glance, a tiny shake of the head, the lift of an eyebrow. Dean recognized a sibling code when he saw it, and didn't attempt to decipher it or question it. The smile Martha turned to him when the 'conversation' was finished was not the most convincing she'd ever attempted, but he didn't remark on it.

He glanced back at Castiel, ready to share a _women, huh?_ look with the angel (although he didn't expect a lot of success with that endeavor), but Castiel had a weird look on his face, too. It kind of looked like sympathy, but Dean didn't want to consider the implications of that, so he put it out of his mind.

"How much farther is it?" he asked instead of any of the thousand questions he was pretty sure he didn't want answers to, given the confusing expressions of all of the people he was surrounded by.

"Not much," Tish whispered back, "but there'll be more guards closer to Sam's room. We'll have to keep a good eye out and—"

"Against the wall," Castiel ordered, and there was some note of command in his voice that had all three humans _instantly_ obeying him and pressing themselves against the wall, Martha, Dean noticed, slightly angled in front of Tish.

Tish might be older, but she was Martha's Sammy, and he could see that.

Castiel stood in front of them, head turned to look over his shoulder, and Dean felt a disturbance in the air, heard that soft rustling sound that always marked the angel's appearance. For a moment he braced himself to be transported somewhere, but the ground stayed where it was supposed to and his stomach didn't make that awful lurching feeling, so he guessed they were staying put.

"Don't make a sound," Castiel breathed, and Dean wondered how even when barely vocalizing at all the angel still managed to sound gravelly.

Tish and Martha both nodded, but when Castiel looked to Dean for his affirmation, all the Hunter could do was meet his eyes.

But it was more than that, more than just making eye contact, more than just waiting. Dean knew that it was a look he hadn't given anyone since he was a kid prepping for a hunt with his dad. It was a look that said _I'll follow you_. That _I trust you to take care of me_.

He didn't give Sammy that look when they would hunt together, because taking care of him wasn't Sammy's job. And if it came down to saving him or getting out, Dean expected Sam to run. But Sam gave _him_ that look, before a hunt.

It was weird, feeling it form on his features. Unfamiliar, archaic. But he didn't stop it, because he meant it. And something changed in Castiel's eyes as he recognized it, Dean knew, for what it was and for the fullness of what it meant.

The look only lasted for a second, but Dean knew that in that moment they finally understood each other and what they were. And Dean felt safe, even here, in the heart of his enemy's base. He could feel himself relax against the wall, waiting for Castiel's word on what to do next. Not waiting for orders—just waiting for the next step.

Finally his ears could catch voices down the hallway, and despite the fact that as far as he could tell they were all still totally out in the open, Cas standing there in his trench coat 'hiding' them like something out of a cartoon, he just tilted his head to try to hear better.

"...say it's happening tomorrow," the first voice, a woman, was saying as they came into earshot. "That the Master's going to launch them tomorrow."

"And then what?" the second voice, this one a younger man, asked. "Do you know what happens next?"

Footsteps echoed down the hallway through the silence that fell. "No," the woman admitted. "I just know that the Master says we have to watch Sam Winchester closely in the hours leading up to the final strike."

That seemed to take Soldier Two aback, as he asked, "What, is the Master afraid that he's going to double-cross him?"

"Not as such," Soldier One replied as they came into view. Dean held his breath, and saw Martha and Tish grasp each other's hands. "But he's human, you know? The Master's afraid he won't have...the courage for what has to be done." She stiffened and stopped, putting a hand in front of her companion to stop. "Did you hear something?"

Soldier Two looked around, gripping his gun, but just looked startled and alarmed. No hint of recognition crossed his features when his eyes scanned across Dean and the others. "No," he admitted. "Did you?"

Soldier One hesitated, her eyes flicking over the space that Castiel was covering, then she sighed. "No, I guess not."

Dean exhaled slowly and silently as they started to walk away.

"It's not like anyone can stop it, anyway," Soldier Two said, a hint of moroseness in his voice. "The missiles are all ready to launch. The Master hits that button, it's over."

"At least it'll be over," Soldier One said quietly, as they turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Castiel waited a moment, unmoving, and then stepped back. It felt like a weight was lifted off of all of them, although not in any way Dean could articulate. The angel glanced in the direction that the soldiers had gone in, and then gestured for them to continue in the opposite direction. No one hesitated.

The hall was quiet again as they crept along the wall, and Dean whispered to Martha, "Your timing is _impeccable_. It's all going down tomorrow? You are just...Johnny on the spot."

Martha flashed a grin at him. "I do what I can," she whispered back. "Gives us a hell of a deadline. But we work well on deadlines."

"Emphasis on _dead_," Dean quipped, and Martha stifled a laugh.

"Ugh," Tish groaned, "get a room, you two."

That sobered Martha instantly, and she shot her sister a glare that almost seemed panicked. Tish swallowed, and stopped at a corner, peering around. When she was content that the way was clear, she gestured for the others to follow her.

Once everyone was around the corner, Tish gestured to the third door on the left-hand side. "This is Sam's room," she said. Dean felt his heart lift at her words. "I'm going to go in first. There aren't any cameras in his room—he had the Master take them away—but I don't want to startle him, and he spends a lot of time meditating, so—"

Dean had stopped listening after "this is Sam's room".

He threw the door open, careful that it didn't slam against the wall, and stood in the doorway of his brother's quarters. Sam was already on his feet by the time Dean's eyes found him, and the brothers stood, staring at each other, for a long moment.

Dean heard Tish and Martha and Castiel arrive behind him, and as he staggered a few steps forward the others crowded behind him and Tish closed the door quietly, but he wasn't looking anywhere but at Sammy.

Sammy, alive. Safe. With him.

His kid brother took in a shuddering breath and whispered, "Dean?"

Dean grinned, and opened his arms. "Hey, Sammy," he replied.

Sam walked up to him, slowly, dazed, as unable to convince himself that it wasn't a dream. Dean stayed where he was, willing to wait for Sam. Willing to wait forever, now that he could see Sam in front of him, could prove to himself that Sam was actually, really okay. For the first time in forty years, he could see for himself that his sacrifice had been worth it, because Sammy was okay. He could wait for the inevitable hug.

But he didn't have to wait long, as Sam threw himself at his brother. Dean braced himself just in time, catching his brother's bulk—lessened though it was, as Dean noticed with no small alarm. His brother still had several inches on him, of course, but he was much slighter than Dean remembered. The way his arms fit around the kid was different. Sam hadn't been eating, and it sent an irrational stab of guilt through Dean.

_Supposed to take care of him. It's your job._

"God, you're alive, you're really alive," Sam was murmuring, and Dean snapped back to the present. The present, where he was holding his brother, where they were both alive and safe. He swallowed down a lump of emotion that rose in his throat, and pulled back, holding Sam at arm's length.

"And you look like crap," he shot back, rewarded by a priceless attempt at a bitch face that couldn't quite break through the unadulterated relief that permeated Sam's features. "What, I'm gone for a year and you stop eating? Trying to come join the party downstairs?"

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, looking pained, and Dean punched him in the shoulder. "Dammit, Dean, that's not funny."

"No, it's not," Dean said cheerfully, "and when we get off this damn ship I'm gonna stuff you so full of burgers you'll never want to see a sesame seed again."

He was going to continue, but he noticed that Sam's gaze had left him and fixed behind his shoulder. His instincts sent a rush of adrenaline through him and he turned expecting a fight, but the end of Sam's eye line went to Castiel, who was watching the exchange quietly and met Sam's eyes, his own slightly narrowed.

"Sammy, that's Castiel," Dean said softly, guessing that the direct approach was...maybe not the best, but perhaps the only possible way to get this over with. He just hoped his brother was going to accept the idea of angels existing better than he had. "He's—"

"The angel who saved you from Hell," Sam finished, and Dean stared at him. "The Doctor told me." He stepped past Dean and stuck his hand out to Castiel. "I just...I can't thank you enough. For saving him. I can never repay you."

Castiel watched the extended hand for a moment, and then, to Dean's surprise, took it between both of his. "There is no repayment expected or required," the angel said. "So you are Sam Winchester."

Dean watched as Sam seemed to brace himself—for what, he didn't know, but Sam looked like he was waiting for a shoe to drop.

"The brother who kept Dean fighting," Castiel continued, and Sam exhaled. "He speaks very highly of you. He and Martha both. I am gratified to see you safe and well."

"Thank you," Sam breathed. "Thank you so much. Seriously. I don't—I can't—" He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, composing himself. Then he turned to Martha. "And you, you must be Martha!"

"I am," Martha said, and Dean recognized that quiet sadness from when they'd met. "It's good to see you, Sam."

"I'm sorry you have to do this," Sam said, and Martha frowned. "With me and Dean and Bobby and Castiel not remembering you. It's got to be hard, keeping all of those secrets, having to be so careful with what you say."

"It is," Martha said, her features evening. "I...thank you, Sam." She looked away for a moment, and then rolled her shoulders back and said, "Look, much as I don't want to be the one to interrupt this moment, we don't have time to waste. The Master's plan goes down tomorrow so we have until morning to find everyone and prepare ourselves. Sam, can you get away with us without causing a fuss?"

"Saxon's not expecting me for anything until the morning," he replied. "I told him I needed tonight to meditate. So no one will miss me."

"Then we need to find Jack," Martha said. "Tish?"

"I can get us there," Tish said. "The engine room's not far. There's always a guard posted, though, so we'll have to find a way to get rid of him. He's posted at the only entrance to where Jack is held."

"I doubt that it will pose a difficulty," Castiel said, his words only more threatening for their lack of inflection.

Sam looked startled and turned to Dean, wide-eyed. Dean burst out laughing, controlling his volume after a moment, and said, "Sammy, you've got a lot to get used to."

Sam recovered and grinned along with his brother. "Just glad I get the opportunity to get used to it," he said.

"We should go," Castiel said, sounding, if Dean wasn't imagining it, a touch regretful. Dean glanced at him, and the angel, sure enough, looked _sorry_. "We will have more time for proper reunions once the planet is safe from Harold Saxon."

Tish was already at the door scouting the hallway, and Dean muttered to Sam, "Isn't that always how it is?"

"Thought you didn't like chick flick moments," Sam replied, and Dean glared at him, then shrugged.

"Traveling with a girl for as long as I did, guess you get used to them," he admitted. When Sam didn't reply he looked up at his brother, whose expression had softened.

"Did she find you...soon? After?" he asked, unable to say the words Dean knew he meant.

"Very," Dean assured him. "Same day. I wasn't alone, Sammy. I'm just sorry you were."

"I wasn't, either," Sam said. Then he paused, looking to the side, and said, "The Doctor says he's glad to know you're all safe."

Martha jolted, staring at Sam with wide eyes. "What did you say?" she demanded.

"The Doctor," Sam repeated. "He's...he can talk to me in my head. It's complicated," he added, off of Dean's incredulous look. "It's a long story. But he's here."

"That could prove useful," Castiel remarked, although the look he gave Sam was slightly askance.

"Tell the Doctor to hang on," Martha said. "We're on our way."

Sam grinned. "He says he knows, and he says you're even more brilliant than he thought," Sam said. "So, uh, allons-y, he says."

Martha stifled a laugh behind her fist, and when Tish gave the all-clear, they began to make their way down the hall towards the engine room.

And if Dean stayed a little closer to Sam than he usually did, if he let their shoulders bump once or twice just to make sure that he wasn't imagining his brother next to him, he thought it could be forgiven.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: Okay, so this bit at the end, I wrote _ages_ ago and I've been _dying_ to get to this point just so I could use it. And we witness the return of longer chapters! Sam's always been more verbose than the others...

* * *

They had probably less than twelve hours before Harold Saxon destroyed the planet. He would set off the missiles, kill the Doctor, and then probably kill all of Sam's friends—or worse, force them to live to see it.

They had a plan, but it depended utterly on the Doctor being right about Archangel, a network that he knew next to nothing about and was only able to examine from captivity, and it depended on Sam being able to harness powers that he didn't fully understand in a way he'd never really tried before.

They had a team, but it was comprised of a bunch of malnourished, exhausted humans, one seemingly baffled angel, and a Time Lord aged to reflect in human terms his true age. They hadn't had time to communicate the plan to each other, and Sam wasn't sure how much the Doctor had been able to tell Martha before she left the _Valiant_.

They were well and truly screwed, by any fair appraisal.

And yet Sam couldn't keep the smile off of his face.

He felt the way that Dean kept straying within the small distance between them, letting their shoulders brush, reminding himself that it was real. Dean never believed in anything he couldn't touch, so Sam understood why he kept making sure Sam was there, physically there. And in truth, he appreciated the reminder, too.

Dean was alive. Here, safe. With him.

And he wasn't going to let him go again.

He watched as Martha and Tish went through a similiar ritual, although it seemed less familiar for them; this was probably the first separation of this kind they'd had to go through, the first separation where neither of them had been sure they'd see one another again. So their fingers reached out and brushed each other, their hands fell on each other's backs when they paused to scout a new hallway, and the distance between them was never much more than the distance between Sam and Dean. He saw the awe in Tish's eyes and the unabashed relief in Martha's, and the way that, despite the gravity of their situation, the corners of their lips would tug upwards at the sight of each other, each time either woman's eyes fell on her sister. It was good to see Tish so happy. He'd rarely seen her smile during his year aboard the _Valiant_, and now it seemed all she could do to stop beaming for a moment to look appropriately somber.

And then there was Castiel.

Sam did his best to not stare, but he found it difficult. An _angel_. And after all the fun Dean had made of him on that case for thinking that angels might exist, Dean gets pulled out of Hell by one. Dean, agnostic, disbelieving Dean, gets to meet the angel first.

Sam didn't suppose he envied Castiel the struggle to convince Dean of his true nature.

On the surface, Castiel looked really normal. Like, shockingly normal. Dark, tousled hair, a little bit of stubble, rumpled clothes under a dirty tan trench coat. The whole appearance reminded Sam a little bit of Dean, and he wondered if that was on purpose, or if eight months in the trenches had just had the two of them picking up habits from one another.

Or just Castiel from Dean, because Sam couldn't wrap his mind around Dean picking up an _angel's_ habits.

But Sam knew, knew in his bones, that Castiel wasn't normal. Of course. Even if he hadn't been told, even if Dean hadn't come up all glib with the _Hey Sammy this is my friend Castiel and by the way he's an angel_, Sam would have known that there was something more than human about him. But he did know what Castiel was, and more than that, he knew what Castiel had done.

And the angel could say that Sam didn't owe him anything for rescuing Dean from an eternity of torture that Sam got him into in the first place, but Sam knew better. He was a Winchester, and they didn't let stuff like that slide. He knew he'd never be able to fully repay Castiel, but damn if he wasn't going to try. Especially when he saw the way that Dean looked at Castiel—there was a trust and a comfort in his brother's eyes that he hadn't seen since they were kids. Sam didn't know what had happened in the past year, and there wasn't time now to ask, but whatever it was, he was relieved to see that Dean had had Castiel. Because if anybody deserved someone to have their back, it was his big brother. If anybody deserved somebody they could rely on, it was Dean.

_I told you he'd be fine._

Sam made a face, then quickly smoothed it out when he realized that there were actually other people around him now—people who couldn't hear the Doctor. He didn't want to look like some kind of psycho in front of Dean, who would definitely notice him making weird faces like he was talking to somebody. (Even if he _was_ actually talking to somebody.)

_Hardly the time for I-told-you-sos, Doctor,_ he thought.

_All right, fine. But really, Samuel, I'm glad you have him back. I'm glad to see him safe, too._

_And Martha,_ Sam added. _Dean, and Martha, too._

There was a silence for a moment, and the Doctor's voice was guarded as he echoed, _Yes, Dean and Martha. No worries about Castiel, of course, rain or shine he'd've been a hard one for the Master to put a dent in. And due to that very fact, there wasn't much to worry about for Dean and Martha._

Sam glanced at the angel, who was watching Dean like he was trying to puzzle him out, and thought, _It's...good to see that somebody was taking care of Dean._

_Only hope Dean feels the same way about me, or I'm in for a lecture_, the Doctor replied, obviously only halfway facetious.

_He will,_ Sam thought. _Dean's not big with letting people in, but he trusts you, Doctor. After all that crap with the Shadow Proclamation...after what you did for us—_

_Right, well, by-gones,_ the Doctor interrupted hastily. _Ah, you might want to attend to your brother._

Sam looked over at Dean, who was giving him a weird look. "You all right in there, space cadet?" he whispered.

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah," he whispered back. "Just the, uh, the Doctor."

Dean's eyebrows lifted. "Right. In your head?"

Sam was pretty sure that Dean would classify his expression as a _bitch face_, but he didn't care. "Look, it's complicated, all right? And it's...weird for me, too. Also, it's not like you don't have your own weirdness going on."

"What, Cas?" Sam blanched when Dean jerked a thumb at the angel, who glanced at them, looking puzzled. Or irritated. Or something, it seemed like Castiel's facial expressions consisted solely of narrowed eyes and head tilts and Sam had no idea how he was supposed to interpret that. "Cas isn't Time-Lord-in-your-head level weird, Sam."

And it hit Sam the second time. "What did you call him?"

Suddenly Dean looked a little uncomfortable, and his voice was even softer as he repeated, "Uh, Cas. I don't know, shut up. Go talk to the Doctor or whatever."

"Jerk," Sam muttered.

"Bitch," Dean shot back.

Sam heard Martha make a weird noise ahead of them, but looked at his brother and just said, fondly, "Dammit."

"What?" asked Dean, looking around in alarm.

"Nothing," Sam replied. "I just...I missed you, man."

Dean rolled his eyes, but in the moment before that, Sam caught the look of happiness and relief and comfort on his brother's face, and it was just as good as hearing _me too, Sammy_. "Dude, chick flick moments," Dean groaned. "When you're traveling with a girl, fine. Now that we're back...no."

Back. Yeah, that sounded good. "Sorry," Sam whispered, biting back a laugh.

"Yeah, okay," Dean muttered, but Sam could see the smile he was fighting.

_Samuel, you might want to hurry. The Master has a program scanning for Dean at all times, and it's only a matter of time before he or one of his men checks it. You need to get to Jack._

"Hey Tish," Sam called softly, and Tish turned to look at him. "We've got to go faster." He gestured vaguely towards his head, and Tish nodded, checked the hall quickly, and walked up to him.

"We can take a right here, up ahead," Tish said, "but that brings us down the main corridor for a stretch. It'd be a miracle if we didn't run into anyone. Think your brother's friend can take out whoever needs to be taken out?"

_No deaths._

Sam rolled his eyes. "I know, I know," he muttered, and Tish furrowed her brow. "Sorry, not you," he amended quickly. "The Doctor says no deaths. But I'm sure he can incapacitate someone without killing them."

There was a pause, and Tish cocked her head to the side, looking impatient. "You could always _ask_ him," she suggested.

Sam startled, eyes going wide, and looked from Tish to Castiel and back. "Oh," he said mildly. "Uh, right."

The angel turned too-blue eyes to him, tilting his head slightly, studying him. Sam felt his mouth go dry, and he swallowed hard as he built up his courage to talk to the angel about something other than his gratitude for the first time.

Castiel looked normal. Looked like just some guy. But Sam was connected to Archangel, a little bit, all the time, and he knew a human when he saw one and everything about Castiel screamed _other_ so loud that Sam just wanted to put his hands over his ears. Behind the rumpled suit and overcoat was a creature more powerful than he'd ever faced before.

Dean's friend. Dean's savior. Come on.

"Is there something you wish to ask me, Sam?" the angel prompted, his voice low and gravelly but surprisingly gentle. As Sam tried to figure out how to reply he saw Castiel look over to Dean, who looked pained but nodded—nodded his approval at Castiel's question. His brother was coaching the angel.

That struck Sam as pretty funny.

"We may have to head into the main corridor to get to the engine room more quickly," Sam explained quietly, trying not to be awkward in the face of Castiel's unwavering attention. "There will probably be guards there. We can't afford for any of them to set off alarms."

"I can dispatch them," Castiel said, and the conviction in his voice was absolute. Sam winced.

"Non-lethally," Sam pressed. "It's got to be non-lethally. These people are being forced into service against their will, and they want to get back to their families as much as—"

"Sam." Sam shut up instantly at the sound of the angel's voice, and waited silently, wide-eyed. Castiel's voice was patient as he said, "I will not harm any of Harold Saxon's human forces. I believe you should inhale."

Sam obeyed.

"We should proceed," Castiel concluded, and Sam thought he detected a note of _dryness_ in Castiel's tone, but he wasn't going to explore it.

Tish crept around the corner, leading them around and down a few smaller hallways until finally the sound of footsteps and hushed voices announces their arrival at the main corridor. They all press themselves against the wall, except for Sam, who joins Tish at the mouth of the hallway and peers around the corner.

The crowd was surprisingly sparse, but at five soldiers, still more of a crowd than Sam would have preferred. He set his jaw and turned to look at Dean and Martha, who both nodded at him—_we're behind you_. He then turned to Castiel, who only looked back, stone-faced, and walked out into the hallway.

About a quarter of a second later all of the soldiers were frozen in place.

The four humans crept out from the hallway slowly, in disbelief—well, three of them did. Dean just strode out like he owned the place, a small smirk on his face, and Sam could just as well have heard him say _look at what my angel did_. He looked _proud_, and Sam felt the tiniest stab of jealousy, because he'd never seen anybody but himself prompt that look on Dean's face.

Dean went over to one of the frozen soldiers and waved a hand in front of her face like a kid, grinning like mad the whole time. "Hello," he called, softly, bending down to peer up at the woman's face. "Anybody home?"

"Quit being a dick," Sam muttered, and Dean made a face at him.

"All right, princess," he snapped, walking back up to his brother. "Sorry."

"We don't have time for you being stupid," Sam said as they began to make their way down the hall. Tish was staring around at the soldiers with a look of awe on her face, and Martha had a hand reassuringly on her sister's shoulder. "We've got to get to Jack and get out before Saxon notices you're here."

"Why me?" Dean asked, all joviality gone from his expression in an instant. "Notices _I'm_ here?"

Sam sighed, pressing a knuckle against the dot of pain that was blossoming in his temple. "Saxon tried to get me to believe _he'd_ brought you back from Hell," Sam explained. "He was trying to use you to get me to join up with him."

"It would be impossible for a Time Lord to break a crossroads deal or rescue a human soul from Hell," Castiel interjected, and Sam jumped a little, not having realized that the angel was listening to the conversation. He sounded affronted at the idea of Saxon taking credit for his actions, and really, Sam couldn't blame him. He had no idea what Hell was like—thank God—but he imagined that going down into the Pit to drag out the soul of a human he'd never met before was probably a horrible and memorable event, and an action that Castiel would take a fierce ownership of.

(And Sam wondered, from the way that the angel looked at his brother, if that was the only thing he took a fierce ownership of, but that was a discussion for another time.)

"I know," Sam said, gently, placating. "The Doctor told me. And I couldn't believe it, but he showed me that you were back, Dean, and I just...but the point is that after the Doctor told me to join up with Saxon—"

"Mr. Winchester?"

Sam stopped dead, and the whole party stopped behind him. He stared ahead into the eyes of a young UNIT soldier.

He wasn't anybody Sam recognized, but then, Sam hadn't been paying a huge amount of attention to the mostly faceless UNIT soldiers he was surrounded by. Tish, he paid attention to. The Doctor. Saxon, and Lucy. But he hadn't done a lot of work in memorizing names or faces of the others. But they all knew him. Of course they did; Saxon's second-in-command, raised from the labor camps to a place of glory in the new Gallifreyan Empire? Of course they knew him.

But more pressingly the kid had a finger on his communicator, ready to hit the alarm.

So Sam stepped forward, motioning for the others to stay behind him.

"Sam—" Castiel said, low and dark, but Sam shook his head and to his surprise the angel stopped.

"Hey," Sam said soothingly, and the kid didn't move either. "There a problem?"

The kid's eyes flicked from Sam to the assembled rebels behind him, and back to Sam. "Um," he said.

_Samuel._

_I've got it, Doctor,_ Sam thought, curt, and reached into the Archangel Network carefully.

A hundred, a thousand, a million, _billions_ of threads zipped by him as he rifled through, looking for one, just one, one shining thread in the middle of the teeming mass, the _right_ one. The kid's finger was still on the button, but he still wasn't pressing it.

"Everything's fine," Sam said. "They're with me."

"Isn't—isn't that your brother?" the kid stammered, glancing anxiously at Dean.

"The Master brought him back to me," Sam improvised, "just like he promised he would. Isn't he wonderful?"

The kid looked like he really _wanted _to believe, but just couldn't.

Not yet.

Not until Sam found—

Ah, _there_.

He touched the thread gently and it vibrated under what was not his hand but his _mind_, and he pushed belief, trust, calm into the thread. The kid visibly relaxed in front of him, and his finger fell away from the button, and he smiled.

"Everything's fine, Rob," Sam promised. "I'll take care of it."

"Everything's fine," said Rob, who was nineteen years old and joined UNIT because he was an IT whiz who'd graduated high school at fifteen, who lived with his mom and stepdad and big sister, who was dating a girl called Sophie, who didn't want to work for UNIT forever but thought it was the best way to get the references he needed to get into any school he chose and to get any job he wanted—Rob said _everything's fine_ because Sam told him to, believed that everything was fine because Sam wanted him to. Rob smiled and the tension drained away from his shoulders because Sam wanted the kid to trust him, so he did. Rob's eyes were open and relaxed for the same reason that people on the surface of the planet lived in terror—because somebody sent them the order over Archangel.

Sam backed away from the thread, feeling a little ill.

Rob saluted smartly, said, "Sir," and continued on the path he'd been on previously.

There was a short silence, and the Doctor sent, _It's all right, Samuel. It'll be over soon._

Sam didn't respond, and he felt the Doctor back off.

Dean stepped up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn't jump, didn't tense, because that weight—that exact weight on his shoulder was so familiar. "Sammy?" Dean said, quietly, uncertainly.

"It's gonna be over soon," Sam said. "Let's go find Jack."

The rest of the trek to the engine room was quiet and uneasy, and everybody but Tish was looking at Sam a little differently, which he hated but couldn't blame them for. No one said anything until Dean came up right behind Sam and whispered his name.

"We don't have time to talk about this right now, Dean," Sam said wearily.

"Then just listen," Dean shot back, and Sam sighed. "I don't know what you did back there but I can see in your face that you didn't like it. I don't care what's happened up here, you get me? We have to do hard things sometimes. It's life. It's _our_ lives. And I'm seeing my kid brother for the first time in for—in a long time, so I don't want you moping around the place. We're back in business, Sammy. So friggin' cheer up."

Sam stared at his brother, and felt his expression melt into relief. "Really?" he breathed.

Dean rolled his eyes again. "Shut up," he said.

"We're here," Tish announced, gesturing to a heavy set of doors. Castiel strode through and opened them easily, the others slipping in behind him just in time for them to see the angel raising a hand to freeze the soldier guarding Jack.

Sam gave the soldier a slightly apologetic look as he passed.

Jack whistled as they poured into the engine room, looking ragged. "Whoo! 'Bout time, cavalry!" he cried over the sound of the engines. "Starting to think you guys weren't gonna show."

"We're here now, Jack," Sam said, holding his hand out towards Dean, who he eventually realized was just giving him a weird look. He glanced at his brother. "Lock-picking kit," he explained.

Dean reached into his pack and pulled it out. "You sure you got that?" he asked.

"I got this," Sam assured him, walking over to Jack and taking a look at the cuffs.

"Good to see you, Sam," Jack said, and while his tone was light Sam knew the words were heartfelt.

"Sorry it took so long," Sam replied, and Jack shrugged carelessly.

"Undying Man," Jack reminded him. "A year's not so bad. Martha Jones!"

"Hey, Jack," Martha called with a smile, waving. "You look like hell."

"Back at you, beautiful," Jack retorted. "Tish, my top girl. And who are your friends?"

"That's Dean and Castiel," Sam replied shortly, focusing on the lock.

Jack stared, wide-eyed, at the two men in front of him while Sam hurriedly picked the locks and uncuffed him. "You're Dean," he said slowly.

Dean glanced at Sam, who shrugged, and he replied, "Yeah. Uh, Jack. You haven't changed."

Jack grinned past his wince as Sam got the left cuff off of his wrist, and then turned his eyes to Castiel. "Which means you're _not_ Dean," he continued.

The angel frowned. "That is correct," he said.

"Which means I didn't know _you_ as a kid," Jack clarified.

Castiel's frown deepened. "That is also correct."

Jack's grin got bigger, and he reached out to Castiel with his free hand. "Then I'm Captain Jack Harkness, and it is _nice_ to meet you," he said.

Sam bit back laughter as Castiel, puzzled, gripped Jack's hand. Then Sam tilted his head, listening.

_You tell Jack Harkness I said to stop it!_

Sam made a face at the invasion of his mind for such a stupid thing, but nonetheless, he relayed the message. "The Doctor says, and I quote, _stop it_," he told Jack, who groaned.

"Seriously?" Jack complained. "He's not even here. Can't I introduce myself to anybody?"

Castiel looked extremely confused by the entire situation, and said, perhaps hoping to placate the puzzling humans surrounding him, "I do not mind his introduction. It is useful to know his name."

Sam had no idea why Jack and Martha started laughing so loud, or why the Doctor started sputtering in his head.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two: Martha Jones

Author's Note: Oh my gosh, that took _way_ longer than I'd hoped. I had company over the weekend and couldn't write at all, but I was really hoping to be able to knock this out yesterday. So thank you very much for your patience, and I hope that this chapter is worth the wait!

* * *

"He is...something else, Martha," Jack murmured, and Martha thanked him with a sharp elbow between the ribs.

They were the second cluster that the group had formed into, with Tish leading the way, the Winchesters lagging a bit behind and Castiel bringing up the rear. Jack's words hadn't been loud enough to be heard by anyone but Martha (and, she had to admit, maybe Castiel), but nonetheless she glared at him. There was less anger in her glare than there was desperation and mild panic, so his expression softened into something resembling apology. "Don't make this harder than it has to be," she whispered.

Jack lowered his eyes, then darted a glance behind them at the brothers, who seemed to be quietly conferring among themselves. "It's crazy to think it's already been fourteen years since Hanging Rock," he said, pensive. Martha looked up at him, and saw the familiar mix of nostalgia and sadness in his eyes. A little bit of pride, too. He looked a lot like the Doctor in that moment. "They're so...grown up."

"They are that," Martha replied, not taking her gaze off of Jack. "Are you all right?"

Jack nodded absently. "You know, Dean, he—"

"Jack," Martha warned, but he shook his head.

"When he was a kid, I thought I'd never met and would never meet anyone sadder in my life," he said, and Martha quieted. "I don't know if he ever told you, but when I met him...we almost lost Sam. Well, _I_ almost lost Sam. I was the adult, after all; the Doctor'd sent me to protect the two of them. But the look on that kid's face when he came to ask for my help..." Jack trailed off, and Martha slipped her hand into his, squeezing it. "I hoped it would get better for them. You know? That what I protected them from would be the worst of it." He squeezed back, tighter than allowed for comfort, but Martha didn't mind. It was probably all of the strength he had after what he'd been through, and the idea worried Martha in a vague place in the back of her thoughts. "The Doctor sent me to America to protect the two of them from this one thing. This one event that would have altered the time line, altered—or ended—their lives. I wonder, sometimes, whether or not he meant for me to get attached like I did."

There wasn't an answer to that, so Martha just leaned her head against his arm as they walked, and murmured, "I don't think you could've helped it, Jack. You've got a big heart."

"A lot of good that did those kids," Jack replied, and there was a darkness in his voice.

Martha almost stopped to correct him, but realized that if she stopped abruptly Sam and Dean would run into them because they weren't paying much attention, and that would lead to a lot of questions about their conversation that she and Jack had no interest in answering. So she just squeezed his hand back harder. "You gave them someone who cared when they didn't have anyone else, Jack. I know these boys, and that's the best gift you could have given them. Believe me. Dean told me...in the other time line, Dean told me what happened that day." She laughed a little, under her breath. "He talked like you were some kind of superhero."

"What, are you saying I'm not?" Jack teased, and Martha nudged him again. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while, nothing but the padding of their quiet feet and the murmuring of the Winchesters behind them breaking it. Tish was single-minded in her careful scouting, and Martha was so proud of her sister that it made her chest ache. At the same time, the ache served to signify her mourning for Tish's innocence. She hadn't wanted this for her sister. Tish had a life ahead of her—a _normal_ life, the kind Martha had given up (willingly, happily, _eagerly_) when the Doctor had invited her aboard the TARDIS. She'd hoped to never see Tish having to do this kind of thing—watching around corners for people with guns, for Time Lords with vendettas, creeping quietly through hostile places, having _work_ towards survival.

But sometimes siblings couldn't protect each other, not from everything; often, not when it mattered most. She'd learned that from the experts.

"Hey, Martha?" She was shaken from her reverie by Jack's voice. "Could I ask you something?"

"Sure," she replied, cautious, because something on Jack's face told her she wasn't going to like the question terribly much.

"Are you...you're leaving, after this. Aren't you." It came out as less a question and more a statement, and Martha hated hearing it maybe more because of that.

"Jack—"

"You're going to leave him?" That one _was_ a question, and it was accusatory, and it made Martha's jaw tighten in anger. She took her hand back, and Jack understood, but it didn't take that look off of his face. That look of _how can you do that_.

"I have to," she said, and the fact that it was true didn't make it any less hard.

"He needs you," Jack pressed.

"He'll be fine," she replied. "He always is."

Jack narrowed his eyes, mouth opened slightly in disbelief. "You can't be serious," he said. "Do you really think that? That he's always _fine_?"

"He'll manage," Martha amended tightly. She worked her jaw for a moment, and then, cutting off Jack's protest, said, "It's gonna kill me, Jack. And I don't mean this life. The danger I can live with. But he's...it's never gonna be what I need it to be. What it ought to be."

"So it's better to just jump ship," Jack said.

Martha turned cold eyes to him and said, "I don't need your _approval_, Jack."

"No," Jack replied, "you don't. But I want you to _think_, Martha. Be sure about this before you do something you'll regret."

"If you think I haven't thought about this, haven't considered every outcome, then you're an idiot," Martha snapped. "This is the only time I'll be able to do it. If I let it go longer...if I wait, I won't be strong enough. And I'll wither, Jack, and I'll die, and in the end I'll be nothing but one more person he couldn't save, one more regret to keep him awake at night. And I'm not going to do that, Jack. Not to him."

If her voice broke a little at the end, Jack didn't say anything.

"What're you two lovebirds talking about?" Dean's voice behind her made Martha jump, and his words made her take a step away from Jack, who gave her an odd look.

"Shut up," she shot back, and Dean grinned. Rolling her eyes to mask any other emotions she was having with frustration, she turned instead to Sam. "Is the Doctor alone?"

Sam furrowed his brow for a minute, looking up at the ceiling, and Martha felt her lips quirk up at the unnecessarily physical aspect to Sam's psychic communication with the Doctor. It also didn't slip her notice that it looked a lot like prayer, and when she glanced back at Castiel as Sam talked to the Doctor, the angel was watching the younger Winchester with that quiet curiosity that was so characteristic of him.

And Martha remembered, last time she'd lived through all of this, how tense things were between Sam and Castiel for such a long time. She remembered Sam's longing for Castiel to treat him like a person with potential rather than just a potential disaster, and Castiel's distrust and dismissal of Sam. The open quality with which they regarded each other this time...it made her heart swell. It took so long, so much blood and sweat and tears, for the two of them to form a truce last time. If this time they could fix it before it was broken, if they could just skip the "boy with the demon blood" bit...everything would be better.

Everything could be better for them, this time. And she wouldn't be there to see it, but maybe she'd get the new memories as they were created, as the Martha from their time lived through all of it with them. She didn't know how it was going to work, but given that she did still remember what she'd been through with the Winchesters, she guessed it was going to happen, in some form, provided that they didn't let the world end.

She didn't know what she'd do if those memories disappeared, and she couldn't bear to think about it.

When Martha pulled herself back into the present, she looked over at Sam. His expression was totally open, and whatever the Doctor was saying, he rolled his eyes and suppressed a grin. "He says, in way too many words, that he's alone except for two guards at the entrance into the control room. He said that they've set up the countdown clock, so we need to kind of hurry."

"Is it counting yet?" Martha asked, alarmed.

Sam bit his lip, then said, "No. He says it's static at twelve hours." Then his eyes widened, and he amended, "And now it's counting."

Martha flinched. "Damn it. All right, let's get moving. Tish, are we close?"

Her sister turned to give her an all-too-familiar withering glare, and said, "Only if we cut right through all the most crowded areas of the _Valiant_, or if your friend here can _teleport_ us into the control room, which for some reason, I feel like he would have offered if it were an option."

All eyes turned to Castiel, who gazed back without expression. "Your sister is correct, Martha," he said once he realized a reply was expected. "There are too many of us and I am cut off from Heaven. We will have to walk."

"Then we're not close," Tish concluded tersely. "_And_ if all of you could _shut up_ that would be fantastic, we're getting closer to some dodgy areas where there are likely to be more UNIT soldiers and I don't know about any of you, but I don't fancy getting caught right as we're about to save the world. 'Course, you all have more experience with that than me, so maybe this is how we do it—get right up to the finish line and then _shout so somebody catches us_."

Martha had never seen Tish look like this: this tight combination of fury and command. But she'd had to live a year like this, while Martha was down on Earth, hunted and afraid but at the same time, free. "Sorry, Tish," Martha murmured, brushing her fingers against Tish's wrist, only to be shaken off irritably.

"Don't be sorry, be smart," Tish said, some of the heat gone from her voice. "Now let's go."

She led them through small corridors and dark spaces, through rooms with hidden exits and into corners that shouldn't have doors in them but did. This place was obviously built by a very paranoid organization, Martha thought idly—she'd never heard of UNIT before this debacle began, but from what she'd learned during the course of this year, all of these secret passages made sense. That Tish had been able to figure it all out was what impressed her, and Tish was obviously intimately familiar with the layout of the _Valiant_. She ducked in and out of the spaces with ease and confidence, and everyone followed her without question.

They'd been slinking around the ship for a good while when suddenly Sam reached out and gripped Martha's arm, a look of panic in his eyes, and Martha grabbed Tish. Her sister looked like she was going to protest, but looked right from Martha to Sam, and nodded. She scanned the area quickly, and then darted through an inconspicuous door, followed by the others.

Tish shut the door behind them once Castiel was in, and stood with her back pressed against it. Her eyes were wide and wild as she stared at Sam. "What is it?" she breathed.

"The Doctor says they've got a fix on Dean," Sam explained, his breathing ragged and too loud now that they were out of the corridor. "Saxon's men. They've—they've been tracking him this whole time but couldn't find him down on the surface. It was only a matter of time before they found him, now that he's so close—but they've got him now, and they're closing on our location." He paused. "It's a good thing Saxon likes to brag so much."

Martha instantly reached into the front of her shirt and pulled out the TARDIS key, slipping it from around her neck with the intent to put it around Dean's. No hesitation, no thought. But Sam put a hand over hers and shook his head. "They've been looking for you, too, Martha," he said. "You think Saxon didn't want your head on a platter? You're Earth's most wanted, and you're on the scanner, too."

"Doctor couldn't have a spare key?" Dean muttered, the freckles on his face standing out as he paled.

"Saxon won't kill me," Martha insisted. "He'll bring me straight to the Doctor, if they find me. He'll want him to watch, and he'll want _me_ to watch the Earth get destroyed. I'm the one who tried to ruin his plans. He'll want me to suffer. He doesn't have a reason to keep Dean alive."

"He'll keep Dean alive for me," Sam said. "Remember? He's the reason I joined up with Saxon. Saxon's supposed to bring him to me."

"Yeah, well, obviously, if they catch us, the jig is up," Martha snapped. "Why would Saxon give you your brother when you've _obviously_ turned on him? Think, Sam."

"It doesn't matter either way," Tish interrupted while Sam tried to spit something back at Martha. "If UNIT has a fix on either one of you we're all finished if they find us. _If_ they find us, by the way, let's not give up just yet. But _if_ they find either one of you they find all of us, because we are _not_ going to get all horror-movie and split up. Understand?"

Martha, Dean, and Sam all nodded like scolded children.

"All this means is that we have to move _fast_," Jack concurred, and Tish looked at him gratefully. "Because the key's a non-issue; who's wearing it is six of one, half dozen of the other."

"Castiel, can you hide Dean from the sensors?" Sam asked.

"What is identifying him to them?" Castiel asked, his brow furrowed in consideration of the request.

"DNA," replied Tish. "It's looking for DNA similar enough to Sam's to belong to a relative." The angel shook his head.

"Not without...altering it," Castiel said, and Dean flinched. "And I am unfamiliar with this technology. Shutting it down, I would risk shutting the ship down altogether, and given our altitude that would be disadvantageous."

"Yeah," Jack said. "Disadvantageous. Looks like we've got one option, kids: barreling through to the control room and shutting down this operation like the Doctor wants us to. So who put their running shoes on this morning?"

Martha managed a half-hearted grin as she said, "Working with the Doctor? We've _always_ got our running shoes on."

Tish turned to open the door, and with her hand on the knob, said, "Keep low and quiet and _fast_. Follow me. If you fall behind I'm leaving you." She glanced back. "Except for Sam, because we need him."

Sam grimaced, and Tish ignored it. She opened the door and stepped out.

A muffled noise was the only indication that something had gone wrong.

Martha was the first to rush out after her, and found Tish with a UNIT soldier's gun to her head. His other hand was around her mouth, and there was none of the last soldier's boyish hesitance. This man was seasoned. He'd shoot Tish if they gave him a reason to, so she put her arm out to stop anyone who planned to rush him.

The soldier's eyes widened when he saw Martha, then further when his gaze fell on Dean and Sam. "Mr. Winchester," he said, and Sam stiffened. "We were under orders not to disturb you, as you were...meditating to prepare for the final strike."

"Walking meditation has always suited me better," Sam replied, but it was obviously just banter. He couldn't bluff his way out of this and he knew it.

"This must be your brother," the soldier continued. "And you match the description of Martha Jones. The Master would be..._gratified_ to know that you were here. I believe he has use for you in rather short order."

"Don't hurt her," Martha spat through gritted teeth.

The soldier shrugged. "I don't have any orders to," he said. Then he cocked the gun. "On the other hand, I don't have any orders _not_ to, either."

_Distract him, Martha Jones._

Castiel's voice in her head was almost painful in its intensity, and she winced, grateful suddenly for the soldier's threat—it was a good cover for her motion. She slipped her hand behind her back and flashed the angel the a-ok hand, hoping to God that he knew what that meant.

She could almost hear the head-tilt as he said, _I am connected to your mind, Martha. There's no need for hand gestures. Just do as I said._

She swallowed hard, and stepped forward towards the soldier, who flinched a little and pressed the gun harder against Tish's temple. Martha raised her hands, but her voice didn't match that gesture as she said, "If you kill her, there's no reason for us to let you live. Don't be stupid. I know they must've told you about us, about what we're capable of."

The soldier scoffed. "I know all about you," he said. "And your Doctor. And I know that he doesn't kill, and that neither do you. You can go ahead and threaten me all you want, but you won't fool me."

"Doctor might be all Woodstock peace and love," Dean growled, walking up just behind Martha, "but that vegan crap isn't my MO. Let her go."

"Your gun's in its holster," the soldier snapped. "She'd be dead before you could aim it."

"And you'd be dead right after," Dean returned. "Wanna risk it, hot shot?"

The soldier glared at Dean for a moment, then looked up, an expression of confusion passing over his face. His lips moved slightly, and he said, "Weren't there six of—"

"Cover your eyes," Castiel growled from behind the soldier, gripping the back of the man's head in one hand, the other pulling the gun away from Tish.

Martha obeyed immediately.

The backs of her eyelids reddened with light, and she heard the beginning of a cry that was quickly cut off. Then there were two sounds, a metallic clang and the thud of a body falling.

When she opened her eyes, the soldier was on the ground, dead.

Everyone stared for a moment like they'd never seen a dead body before, and Martha was struck by the ridiculousness of the situation: the Doctor's Companion, the Undying Man, the Winchester brothers and Tish, who'd seen enough slaughter and horror to last a lifetime, all staring at a dead body like it was their first.

But something about _Castiel_ having killed him was startling.

The angel didn't acknowledge their shock, but said, "He would have killed Tish Jones, regardless of our actions. I heard him decide so. But he was able to set off an alarm, so my recommendation is that we run."

So they ran.

They ran through the halls, quietness being a secondary priority to speed, and they didn't complain as Castiel neutralized soldier after soldier. No one else was killed, but then, they didn't have time to pose much of a threat. Martha could see the angel tiring, but each time he faltered, she caught him glancing at Dean and righting himself.

He'd protect his charge, regardless of the difficulty.

Martha's legs screamed their protest, but just as she was afraid they'd give out, Tish turned a corner at breakneck speed and when they followed her, she'd stopped. "This is the control room," she said. "Castiel, can you open the door?"

The angel lifted a hand and the door slid open. "Yes," he intoned, walking through into the room.

The sight that greeted them in the room was quiet, but dire. Castiel quickly knocked out the two guards, leaving the only conscious inhabitant of the room...

The Doctor.

Martha couldn't speak, couldn't breathe for a moment as she stared at him. Shriveled and small and so weak, so exhausted, so vulnerable. She ran up to him, tearing at the bars of his cage, and realized that she was weeping.

"Doctor," she cried, "we're here, Doctor, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry we took so long—"

She felt a hand on hers, and stopped, looking up at the too-large eyes of her friend. He smiled, and she fell to her knees in tears.

More hands found her shoulders, and she didn't look up; she knew the weight. Dean crouched by her. "Hey," he said quietly, soothingly. "Come on. We've almost made it. Pull it together for another minute because we need you. Save the nervous breakdown for after we've gotten celebratory drinks."

It wasn't terribly comforting, and it wasn't terribly sensitive, but it was _Dean_, and Martha couldn't deny him. She nodded, using his arms as leverage to stand, and faced him.

God, if she survived this, the next thing she'd do would be the hardest thing she'd ever done.

She opened her mouth to speak, but slow applause cut her off.

"Well done, boys and girls. And so punctual."

Harold Saxon stood in the doorway, flanked by a dozen or more UNIT soldiers and a pale woman in a red dress. The Time Lord clasped his hands together, beaming down at them.

"Shall we begin?"


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three: Sam Winchester

Author's Note: Man, I'm nervous about uploading this chapter. I hope everybody stays on board with it, but I've done something here that I haven't done before and I'm a bit anxious about it...Also, sorry about the POV switch-up, I know it's Dean's turn but this chapter had to be written in Sam's POV and the next one had to be written in Dean's, so they just traded.

Additionally, some of the dialogue in this chapter is taken from or adapted from "The Last of the Time Lords", the series three finale of "Doctor Who".

Last thing: I have a poll up on my profile to vote for the next installment of this series you'd like to see. Or at least I'm working on getting the poll up. Check it out and let me know what you think I should write next!

* * *

Sam barely had time to process that they were in trouble before Saxon had snapped his fingers and the UNIT soldiers poured into the room. They took all of them by the arms, two soldiers to each rebel. He saw Dean struggling, lunging towards Martha, but he was restrained with some difficulty. Jack and Tish were still, as though they were far too used to being restrained by UNIT soldiers, and Martha shouted something at Dean but Sam's blood was rushing too loud in his ears for him to make it out.

Sam found Castiel, flanked by two soldiers who looked hesitant to touch him, and Sam couldn't say he blamed them. The angel was looking at Saxon, a light in his eyes that Sam hoped to God he never found directed at himself: an expression of unadulterated rage and the cold, calculated certainty that someone would suffer for this insult, for thinking that he could be restrained or that he would allow his friends to be. But Saxon just grinned at him, and then raised a pistol.

Pointed at Dean's head.

"Not the smallest step, angel," the Time Lord said. "Or I put a hole in your boy's head."

"I could end you before you pulled the trigger," Castiel intoned, and Sam shuddered.

All Saxon did was laugh and walk towards Dean, the pistol aimed squarely between his eyes. "Then why haven't you?" Saxon crowed, and Castiel's eyes narrowed. "You're all out of _juice_, you hyped-up cluster of caeloform energy. You smote so many of my men on the way up here that you don't have it in you to smite me. Especially _me_. Sure, perhaps you could manage to off me, with effort. But it would take too long. I'd get the shot off, and you know it. So if you don't want to see me redecorate the room with his grey matter, don't move."

Dean's eyes flicked from the gun to Saxon to Castiel, and Sam saw the fear in his brother. Of what, Sam wasn't sure—that Castiel would do as he was told and Saxon would shoot him anyway? That Castiel would move and get him killed? Or that Castiel would do what Saxon said, Dean would live, and the world would end because of him?

The whole room seemed to hold its breath, but Castiel broke the eye contact, looking away with his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Saxon laughed gleefully, but kept the gun pointed at Dean.

"Ah," the Time Lord said. "That's more like it." He turned to Dean and patted him on the cheek. Dean flinched away, snarling, but he was held in place. Saxon gazed up at him, then shook his finger at him, saying, "You've caused me quite a bit of trouble, my boy."

"Well, I am just _very_ sorry to hear that," Dean said through gritted teeth, his voice equal parts sarcasm and tight fear. "I'll try to be a more accommodating kidnap victim next time around."

Saxon slapped him on the face lightly, but evidently hard enough because Dean winced away just a bit, only to be pulled back when Saxon gripped his face. "Such spirit," he said. "I like the fight in you. Like your little brother. Who really did have me fooled, I must say; a bravura performance, Sammy."

"You don't hit a quarter century of fightin' fuglies by being stupid," Dean retorted. "My brother knows how to deal with monsters."

Sam watched as Saxon grew still, then took the gun and pressed the barrel right up to Dean's forehead. Sam couldn't help the thrill of pride that rushed through him when Dean didn't flinch, but just kept glaring at Saxon, then looking away once—to Castiel—and back with a new expression of challenge.

_Do what you want, but my angel's gonna be pissed._

Saxon noticed, and cocked the pistol and everybody froze. Sam saw that defiant look slide off of Dean's face, replaced by the watchful neutrality that he wore on hunts. The look that Sam knew for a fact Dean used to mask the kind of fear that you felt in your bones.

"I won't be disrespected," Saxon growled, "not on my own ship. Not in _my house_. And you, boy...somebody should have taught you _ages_ ago that when you keep prodding the wasp's nest, eventually you will be stung. If the angel won't teach you your place, perhaps I'll have to."

Dean took a breath to say something, something sarcastic, something that would get him shot, but at the last minute he thought better of it and exhaled. Saxon didn't seem mollified, however, and didn't move.

"This is your worst nightmare, isn't it?" Saxon asked, his tone conversational, but a little louder than before so he obviously wasn't talking to Dean anymore. "Standing there, helpless, about to watch him die. Nothing you can do to stop it. It's every dream that woke you screaming since the beginning of it all. For all your _strength_, it's the one thing you don't think you can survive."

And Sam wanted to scream _yes, yes, it is, just stop, please, I'll do anything_, but Saxon wasn't talking to him, either, and his heart sank as he turned to who Saxon _was_ talking to.

Martha was trembling like she was about to fall apart. Her breathing was ragged, her eyelashes fluttering as she tried to fend off tears. She looked like she could barely stand, most of her weight supported by the soldiers on either side of her, and she didn't look up as she murmured, "Don't hurt him."

"I'm sorry," Saxon sneered, "you're going to have to ask me more _nicely_ than that, Miss Jones."

"_Please_," Martha cried, the word torn out of her, "_please_, don't hurt him. He didn't even want to come with me. He didn't even believe it would work. It's not his fault, none of this. Just...leave him alone, please. If you have to hurt someone, hurt me."

"Martha, what the hell?" Dean shouted, forgetting the gun against his head for a moment as he tried to lunge forward, held back by the soldiers. "What the hell is going on?"

Saxon startled, staring at Dean, and this terrible, slow smile spread across his face. Sam could breathe again as he took the gun away from Dean's forehead, pressing the barrel of it against Dean's cheek in an almost affectionate gesture. "Oh, beautiful," the Time Lord said softly. "He doesn't know."

"I don't know _what_?" Dean growled. Saxon just smiled, so Dean turned to Martha, who still hadn't looked up. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. "Martha?" Dean asked, his voice softer and more unsure.

"Dean, please," Martha said. "Don't ask me."

"All those months together and he never knew," Saxon laughed. "And you'd _still_ offer yourself in his place. Such heroism. Such misguided, human loyalty, even as anything you were is eaten away by my Toclaphane."

Sam shut his eyes, but he could _feel_ Dean tense, could hear the disbelief in his voice as he said, "Anything we—Martha?"

The Companion said nothing, but kept her eyes away from Dean.

"Give me the gun, Martha," Saxon said, "or I shoot your boyfriend between the eyes."

Martha's right arm was released, and the soldier who'd been holding it raised a gun to her head. Martha carefully dug into her pack and took out the gun, holding it by the barrel and placing it slowly on the floor. "Just don't hurt him," she murmured.

Sam did his best to twist his features into horror as Martha relinquished the fake gun. It wasn't hard—all he had to do was look at his brother's face.

Dean looked like his whole world had been turned upside down. And after eight months traveling with Martha, Sam guessed it kind of had. Dean usually assumed every woman had a thing for him—Martha must have hidden it really well. But it was a matter of the integrity of time, and she was the Doctor's Companion. She'd do what she had to do. Hell, just the fact that she'd survived this past year was proof enough that Martha could and would do what was required of her, no matter how hard it was or how much she suffered for it.

Sam just wished Dean hadn't had to suffer for it, too, after everything he'd already been through.

"Kick it to me," Saxon ordered, and Martha obeyed. Saxon pulled out something that looked like the Doctor's sonic screwdriver and aimed it at the gun. He fired, and Martha's weapon shattered. Saxon smiled again, and Sam could see that his posture relaxed a bit. "Ah, yes. That's better."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Martha whispered, and Sam thought distantly that it was a nice touch.

"That's right," Saxon said. "So sorry. You're all so very _sorry_. But sadly, sorry won't be quite enough, because I've just _won_."

The Time Lord raised the pistol again to Dean, but only as sort of an afterthought. He raised his other arm, on which his communicator was strapped, and he said, "Are we ready?"

The staticky voice that came from the communicator was barely audible to Sam, but he was still able to make out, "The fleet awaits your signal. Rejoice!"

Sam glanced back at the clock, which fritzed out for a second and then, heart-stoppingly, reset itself at three minutes.

Saxon shrugged. "I'm impatient," he said, "and the leader of the Earth needn't wait. Three minutes until the black hole converters are deployed. You and I will sit together, Doctor, with your children and watch the world burn."

"You've always underestimated them."

At first Sam thought that the Doctor was talking to him...he was so used to hearing that voice only inside of his own mind. But the others reacted to it, too, and he realized that the Doctor was talking to Saxon. He looked up at the shriveled, exhausted creature that he knew was the Doctor, and saw him gazing down with a pitying expression in those too-large eyes at the only other Time Lord in existence.

The closest thing the Doctor had to family, Sam realized with a shiver.

Saxon glared up at the Doctor. "Is that so, _Doctor_? Perhaps you've overestimated them."

The Doctor shook his head. "It's always been your flaw. And it will be your downfall."

"No, Doctor," Saxon said, and the heat rising in his voice made Sam flinch back. "No. You're wrong. Because there won't be a human race to underestimate in about three minutes. I'm going to _burn it all_, Doctor, and there isn't a thing you can do to stop me. And then I will kill all of your precious pets, one by one, and make you watch it. And you can't stop me, because you never could stop me, and then, maybe then, the drumming will stop. Once it's all gone, the drumming will stop."

There was a sadness, a grief, in the Doctor's voice as he said, "It won't make it stop. You can cut a swath across the universe of death and destruction and misery, but it won't make it stop, it won't make it better. It won't fix what they did to you, and I'm...so _sorry_."

Saxon stared at the Doctor for a long moment, and in that moment, Sam thought about the fact that he was watching the last two members of a formerly glorious race stand on opposite ends of a chasm. He was watching the Doctor face his...

His brother, if Sam was going to be honest.

He was watching the Doctor face his brother and choose humanity. Despite the love that the Doctor obviously still held for Saxon, the Doctor was going to choose them. Over the last of his species.

It left Sam a little breathless, because if it had come to that, if it were _Sam _making that choice...he wasn't sure what he'd choose.

_I can fix all of it, Samuel, I believe this,_ the Doctor said, and this time, it was just to Sam. _But you need to do your part, and you need to start now. I also believe in you._

Sam nodded and closed his eyes.

The Archangel Network was vast, and it was intricate, and it was labyrinthine. But Sam had traversed it so frequently over the past eight months that it was as familiar as the back of his hand now, and he brushed over each tendril that linked him to each human on the planet with a learned gentleness.

_Doctor._

And this time, he felt them light up in recognition.

_Doctor_.

In each tendril he found flashes of Martha, of her voice, of her face, her words, her legend. In many he found flashes of Dean and Castiel, too. Impressions of these larger-than-life people, these legends—his brother and his friends. Sam's friends too, some day. There was something a little wonderful about Dean and Martha and Castiel finally getting a little bit of the recognition they deserved from the people they'd saved so many times.

And the Doctor, too.

Because everywhere he touched, the word _Doctor_ was met with breathless wonder. _Yes,_ humanity said, _that's right, the Doctor. Martha's Doctor. The Doctor will save us. The Doctor._

_Doctor._

Distantly, Sam heard Martha laugh.

Saxon's voice was cold as he said, "Care to share the joke with the class, Miss Jones?"

_Doctor_, Sam called to the world.

_Doctor_, they replied.

"Guns," Martha said. "Boys and your guns." And there was affection in her voice, and Sam knew who it was for, and he had to concentrate very hard on his mission to keep from checking on his brother. "You always think it's about the guns. Maybe it's the symbolism."

"I destroyed yours," Saxon said tightly.

"Of course," Martha said. "And it doesn't matter. Did you really think that the Doctor's plan would revolve around a _gun_?"

Saxon didn't reply, and in the silence the chorus of voices from all around the planet built in Sam's head until he was sure that the rest of the room should be thrumming with it.

"That I would ask her to kill?" the Doctor added gently.

"Yeah," Dean said, chuckling, "this wasn't a Winchester case."

"It doesn't matter," Saxon snapped. "I have you, all of you. Whatever your plan was, it's _failed_."

"Eight months searching for a fake gun," Martha said. "Is that what you think we were doing? Do you want to know what I was _actually_ doing?"

Saxon's voice was ice. "Tell me."

"Spreading the word," Martha said. "One story, one word. Telling anyone who'd listen. And telling them to tell their friends, to keep the story going. To keep the faith."

_Doctor. Doctor. Doctor._

The Doctor began to glow with a faint amber light, but Sam wasn't sure anybody noticed yet but him.

"Prayer is your plan?" Saxon asked, incredulous.

"Hey, man," Dean said, as if Saxon wasn't pointing a gun at his head, "might not wanna knock prayer too much. There's an angel behind you."

"And prayer, magnified by fifteen satellites, can be an even more powerful thing," Martha said quietly.

Saxon stilled. "What?" he whispered.

"Archangel," Jack said.

_Doctor doctor doctor doctor_

"Every person on the planet," Martha said, "thinking one word, projecting one _intention_, all at the same time. Billions of them."

"You can't get the word out fast enough," Saxon said.

"We can't," Dean agreed, and Sam could feel his brother's eyes on him. "That's where my geek brother comes in."

_Now!_ Sam cried.

_Doctor Doctor DOCTOR DOCTOR DOCTOR_

"Doctor," Sam said out loud, and he was joined by Jack, Tish, Martha.

"Doctor," whispered poor Lucy Saxon, and Sam felt his heart clench.

"Doctor," Dean said, low and fervent, and it was the last straw.

And there was a flash of light, and a rush of energy, and the cage the Doctor was held in vanished into white. When Sam could see it again, he took a deep breath while the world righted itself.

The Doctor was back, standing tall and straight, surrounded by a golden aura woven from the telepathic energy of an entire species. And as he descended from his cage, it was Sam's eyes he met.

Sam couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, and the Doctor returned it. It wasn't the joyful smile Sam was used to seeing on him—it was softer, gentler, and at the same time, grander. The smile of a man channeling the power of billions, a man who held the power of a planet in his hands.

The smile of a man Sam trusted _entirely_ with that kind of power.

"You can hurt them," the Doctor said to Saxon, keeping his gaze on Sam. "You can hurt them, and you can frighten them, and you can kill them, but the one thing you can't do is stop them from _thinking_. From hoping, and learning, and teaching, and imagining. It's what makes them so marvelous. And it's what saves them, every time."

The Doctor landed softly on the ground, and the Master held out the screwdriver. One gesture from the Doctor had the screwdriver flying across he room before hitting a wall and falling harmlessly to the floor.

Sam saw Dean tense a little at the display of power, but he shot his brother a comforting look. Dean returned it gratefully, but was distracted when Martha ran up to him, putting a hand on his arm hesitantly.

Sam looked away.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor was saying as he approached Saxon.

"No," the man who had ruled Earth whimpered.

"But you know what happens now," the Doctor continued. "You wouldn't listen, because you know what I'm going to say."

Sam's stomach clenched as he watched the Doctor advance on Saxon, Saxon cowering against the wall, arm flung over his head as though to protect himself from a blow. Sam considered looking away again, not sure he wanted to see the Doctor do what needed to be done. But the Doctor had seen some of the worst parts of him; he wasn't going to abandon him.

The Doctor crouched by Saxon, who whimpered again.

The Doctor put his arms around Saxon, cradling him to his chest, and whispered, "I forgive you."

And Sam wondered who had given the Doctor permission to _forgive_ Saxon for the destruction and horror he'd wrought on the Earth.

But as he watched the Doctor hold the weeping Master, the last of their race, huddled on the floor, he realized that it could be him and Dean there. He saw the vision that he knew Dean feared: Sam doing something horrible, something unforgivable, something like Saxon had done. And he knew Dean would forgive him for it, always, even if he shouldn't.

So he couldn't find it in himself to fault the Doctor.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four: Dean Winchester

Author's Note: We're in the home stretch! There's one, _maybe_ two chapters left, and then we will wrap up the Year that Never Was and move on to other adventures. Which, speaking of other adventures, don't forget to voice your opinion on what I should write next in the poll on my profile! There's a wide variety of stories that I have on various burners, so let me know what you want to see!

Also I really hope that the ending of this chapter makes sense. It's a bit of an inference but I think it's clear enough. Let me know if I'm wrong!

* * *

It occurred to Dean that perhaps he should be angry with himself for not noticing.

Of all the girls he'd met over the years, all the girls he'd been with, all the girls he'd wanted...he'd never _assumed_ they wouldn't be interested in him. Come on. He was Dean Winchester, and all the girls wanted him. It was something about his devil-may-care smile (taught to him by Jack Harkness, the man himself, all those years ago) and the leather jacket and the muscle car and the way his eyes could go from _soulful_ to _playful_ in no time flat. Dean never lacked for company, not when he wanted it.

But he hadn't even made a move on Martha.

There was something about her, something that was...he didn't want to say too _good_, because in his way he cared about all of the girls he'd been with. He had a good time, they had a good time, everybody left happy. They were nice girls, for the most part. So it wasn't that Martha was too good for him.

Martha was too...

He couldn't put it into words, but seeing the way she crumpled when he was threatened, the raw panic in her eyes when Saxon cocked the pistol, he was overwhelmed. Because somebody cared about him like that. Somebody who wasn't Sammy. Somebody who didn't _have to_.

And it wasn't just now. It was the past eight months. She'd brought him along on her stupid mission and then she hadn't asked anything else of him—just for him to be with her, to do this thing with her, to keep her from being alone. And she was _grateful_. She made him feel like he wasn't just there as a weapon, or as a tool, but as a friend, even though he didn't know her. She just wanted him there, as Dean, and that was all.

It was like Cas—acting like he had some kind of value, just for being Dean—but she didn't even have the whole mission-from-God thing to blame for it. She was a stranger, and she cared about him enough to offer herself in his place, and there was no template for that in Dean's understanding of the world. She wasn't his family. She didn't have to care about him, so she shouldn't. Not that much.

After forty years in Hell of nobody wanting to do anything but hurt him, make him bleed, make him scream, make him weep, somebody that he didn't even _know_ a year ago offering her life for his was...

Too much. Words didn't cover it. Couldn't, he didn't think, even though he'd never really been a word-smith. That was Sammy's job.

So he played his part, he threw out the one-liners when they were required, but his mind was an incoherent swirl of half-formed thoughts and stolen glances at Martha, who he'd catch looking back at him like she was afraid she'd blown it. He wished the expression he'd returned to her had been more reassuring, but all he could manage was _stunned_.

It wasn't until the Doctor was free, until they had their big gun back, that she was able to make her way over to him. He was in the process of bracing himself for the other shoe dropping—the Doctor had just thrown Saxon's screwdriver aside, and everything looked perfect, everybody he loved was safe, and he was waiting for the bad news to hit, for the power to have snapped something in the Doctor and for everything to crash down into crap again because while maybe they'd been able to beat one Time Lord, he knew _he_ wasn't up for another round in the same day.

But the Doctor just walked up to Saxon and said something about forgiving him and that wasn't okay, it wasn't okay with Dean for the Doctor to forgive Saxon, but Martha had her hand on his arm and he got distracted.

The UNIT soldiers backed off pretty quick once the Doctor was out of his cage, hovering at the edges of the room and all but pressing themselves against the walls to get away, so Dean was free to turn into Martha's touch and meet her eyes. "You all right?" he asked.

She nodded mutely, her expression tight. She studied him for a moment, as though cataloging every aspect of him to make sure he wasn't hurt in some way he would lie to her about, and then said, "Are you?"

He nodded, too, even though the answer wasn't quite _yes_. "You think...you think we're done?" he asked, gesturing vaguely towards the Doctor and Saxon.

"God, I hope so," Martha breathed.

A moment passed where neither of them said anything, but she didn't take her hand off of his arm and he didn't move away from her.

"Dean, I just want you to know—" Martha began, only to be cut off by Dean's exclamation of "Why didn't you say something?"

Both fell silent, and Martha took her hand away, shoving both her hands into her pockets. "Dean—"

"Eight months," he said, but he couldn't work a lot of heat into his voice. "That's a long damn time, Martha."

"It's your future, Dean," Martha replied, weary. "Please understand. I _couldn't_ say anything. I don't know how this is going to play out...this time line, now that the Master's gone and changed it...but I had to try to preserve its integrity, just in case. Paradoxes are terrible things, Dean, and the Doctor wasn't there to help us if I screwed something up. This is bigger than us."

She stopped, and took a shuddering breath, and added, "I never meant to...I couldn't do anything else. You know I couldn't. I didn't do it to hurt you." She looked away, folding her arms protectively over her chest. "And don't act like it didn't hurt _me_. I _knew_. The whole time."

Eight months flashed by in Dean's mind, waking up next to her, standing back-to-back when they heard that ominous buzzing, Martha draping herself over him when the Spheres got too close, tending to one another's cuts and bruises so they didn't wear Cas out on the petty shit, going to sleep close enough to touch. Heart-to-hearts in the middle of the night or the middle of a camp or on the fringes of consciousness.

Oh, god.

_I want things I can't have, Dean. A normal life. White picket fence and settling down._

_You can still have that._

_Not with him._

He ran his hands through his hair, letting them rest, fingers interwoven, against the back of his neck. "You didn't tell me because you're leaving," he said quietly. She looked up at him, a neck-snapping motion that looked like it hurt. "You weren't talking about the Doctor, when you said you had to leave because you...because _he_..._he_ was _me_."

Dean didn't even realize that Martha was moving until her hands were already bringing his face down to her level. He stared, wide-eyed, at her. She was shaking a little. But so was he.

"I'm not leaving you, Dean," she said, and though her exhaustion she still managed to sound fierce. "You don't have any idea what happens next, for you. And I can't tell you. But I will say I'm just so _tired_ of being out of order. I have to stay put somewhere. I can't bear it anymore, not knowing when I am. It's one thing when the Doctor and I are traveling to new worlds, new times we haven't been to before...but with you, with you and Sam and Cas and Bobby, it's too hard." She swallowed hard. "I'm always so scared that he'll miss, and we'll show up at Bobby's later than we're supposed to, and one of you will be..."

"Gone," Dean supplied, taking pity on her.

Martha didn't say anything, just ran a thumb along his cheek. "Can I stop, and wait?" she whispered. "You'll have me there with you. You'll live all the memories I have. Will you forgive me if I stop and wait for you?"

Dean put his hand over hers, resting across his face, and nodded. He took a breath to respond, but was cut off by a shrill cry of "My children!"

Saxon's voice shattered the moment, and Martha spun around, stepping in front of Dean like she'd protect him from whatever was happening. Dean wanted to take exception to it, but he didn't want to press Martha, not right now, so he just stepped closer to her.

"Jack!" the Doctor shouted, and across the room Dean saw Jack shake himself free of the soldiers who were still restraining him—Dean guessed that they thought of Jack as their prisoner, still, not one of the crazy people who'd shown up on their ship and screwed everything up and whose friend had managed to freeze-frame half the UNIT soldiers on the ship. But despite his prolonged restraint, Jack just rolled his shoulders back and shook out his arms, grinning this smug grin as the Doctor said, "The paradox machine!"

"Right," Jack said crisply, clapping his hands together and turning to Castiel. The soldiers had backed well away from Castiel as soon as there wasn't a gun pointed at Dean's head, and Dean thought that it was probably a good idea. The angel still looked pretty pissed at anybody having tried to restrain him in the first place. "Hey, angel-face."

Castiel looked like he couldn't decide whether to be insulted or embarrassed, so went for both and landed at _confused_.

"I need somebody else who can't die," Jack said. "Know anybody like that?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I assume you are referring to myself."

Jack laughed, a full-throated sound that only served to narrow Castiel's eyes further. "You are just on the ball today," he said, and took off, Castiel close behind him.

"Oh my god." Martha's hand slipped into Dean's and dragged him to the huge window that served as the front of the control room. He held on tight when he saw what she was looking at.

Toclaphane.

_Lots_ of them.

"We've got six billion Spheres headed straight for us!" Martha cried, turning without releasing Dean. "Doctor, we've—"

Dean wasn't sure at first why she broke off, but when he looked around, there was no trace of the Time Lord. Either Time Lord. Dean felt a tightness in his chest that he distantly recognized as panic. But he had no time for panic. "Sam, what the hell happened?" he shouted.

"Saxon," Sam said, staring at the place where the Doctor and Saxon had been while he made his way to Martha and Dean. "He must've had a teleporter, like the UNIT soldiers who brought me here. He activated it and then he and the Doctor were gone."

"They're gone and we've got every Toclaphane on the planet headed here to defend the paradox machine," Martha said, and she was looking out the window so she didn't notice the way Sam watched their hands, then turned to Dean with a look of _are you okay_.

Dean just looked away.

"Jack and Castiel are headed to the paradox machine right now," Sam said, and Dean didn't miss the note of hurt in his voice. "They'll take care of it. We have to get out of here."

"And go where?" Martha demanded, and Sam faltered. "We're on an airship a mile off the ground! There's nowhere to run, Sam! We have to _fight_!"

And things got very clear for Dean, all of a sudden. "No, we don't," he said slowly, and Martha and Sam stared at him. "We don't. We have to wait."

Sam's mouth moved silently for a moment, and he said, "Dean, you can have a breakdown later, okay? I need you."

"We got a Time Lord," Dean said, surprising himself with how calm he was, "an immortal time traveler, and an angel working this out for us. If there are hands we gotta be in, I'd take those over pretty much any others. There's nothing we can do right now." He took a deep breath before saying words he never thought he'd say. "We gotta just trust them." He hesitated, and then just went for it. "And I _do_ trust them."

Sam was still looking at him like he was speaking Greek, but Martha just stared at him, wide-eyed, and took his face between her hands.

And kissed him.

It was sudden and hard and fast and not the most romantic or sexiest thing he'd ever experienced, more impulse and desperation than anything else, but he wouldn't mind a round two to go for a better one, he decided hazily.

"What was—" he began, and Martha put a finger to his lips.

"You're gonna be all right, Dean Winchester," she said, and he heard the way she had to force the words past a lump in her throat. "God, it's all been worth if it you're gonna be all right."

He brushed her hair out of her face with a thumb, and he was about to go in for that round two when a _pop_ and a flash of light made both of them as well as Sam turn away, shielding their eyes.

"Cas?" Dean guessed, but when they turned, they saw the Doctor and Saxon, looking as though they were in the middle of grappling with something on Saxon's wrist. The teleporter thing, Dean supposed, as the Doctor grabbed it away from Saxon.

"Castiel!" the Doctor cried, and with a rush of air the angel appeared. The ship rocked once just as Castiel showed up, and Dean grabbed Martha, steadying her.

"What's going on?" Sam shouted over the sudden din.

"Dean!" Martha cried, and he followed her eyeline outside the ship.

To where the Spheres were disappearing.

"It's resetting! Get them out of here!" the Doctor shouted to Castiel. The angel looked puzzled momentarily, but then his expression became grave and he nodded.

Dean would have to categorize the way Castiel approached them as _stalking_, and he put a hand each on Dean and Sam. "Step away, Martha Jones," he said, but while his voice was grim it was not unkind.

Martha lifted Dean's palm to her lips and kissed the center of it. "I'll be waiting," she promised.

Dean smiled, and braced himself for take-off, when he heard his brother cry out, "Dean!"

And then they were nowhere.

Once they landed, Dean pressed down the nausea and vertigo and looked around himself frantically, finding only Castiel. He gripped the angel's arm, half to balance himself and half in panic. "Sammy!" he shouted, and Castiel put a hand on his shoulder.

"His contact with me was broken," Castiel explained, "but he is with the Doctor, Dean. The Doctor will not allow him to come to harm."

"Why'd he want us gone?" Dean demanded. "He told you to get us out of there. Why? What's gonna happen? What's happening up there?"

Castiel glanced up at the sky, and inhaled deeply. "Time will reset itself," he said. "Now that Jack has destroyed the machine holding it in place, the paradox that the Master created will unravel, and this timeline will be repaired. In doing so, the world will return to May of 2008. The _Valiant_ is at the eye of the storm, so to speak, since the paradox machine is located there. It will be untouched by the reversal of time. Those aboard will remember this past year."

Dean stilled, staring at Cas. "They'll remember, but the rest of the world won't," he whispered.

Castiel nodded, watching him cautiously. "That is correct," he said. "The rest of us will return to May of last year, and never know anything happened."

"Take me back," Dean said, turning to fully face Castiel and gripping his forearms. Castiel didn't pull away, but stared at him. "Cas, please, take me back to the _Valiant_. I have to remember."

"It will not negate your Deal, Dean," Castiel said gently.

"I know," Dean said. "I'll just get pulled back into Hell. But if I remember...Cas, if I remember, then I'll know you're coming for me. I'll know that in forty years, you're gonna come for me." He smiled, a wavering, uncertain thing, but when he looked at Castiel there was no doubt in his mind that he was telling the truth as he said, "If I know that, I can hold out. I can wait for you."

There was a trembling tension in Castiel's jaw, and Dean was surprised to recognize it as an emotion being suppressed. "You must understand, Dean," Castiel said, his voice soft and gentle, as though speaking an unkind truth to a child, "that what you are asking is to be sent to Hell for forty years, remembering the last forty as though they had actually happened. Forty years of Hell, plus this year on Earth, only to live those forty years again. Do you realize this?"

Dean swallowed, nodded, and smiled again. "Yeah," he said. "But it's okay. Because you're gonna save me, Cas." The smile faltered. "And what I did...it's bad, isn't it. I mean, worse than just probably-earned-me-another-ticket-to-Hell bad. Like, Winchester level bad."

Castiel said nothing, which was answer enough.

"I want to undo it," Dean pressed. "Time can be rewritten. I want to undo it. I want to deserve it when you come to rescue me this time, Cas."

Castiel's hand shot out and grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt, pulling him so close that their noses almost touched. Dean gasped at the display of strength, feeling his whole frame tense uselessly—there was no getting out of that grip. Castiel's too-bright blue eyes burned a hole into Dean's skull as he growled, "Never say that again, Dean Winchester. In this time or any other, do _not_ suggest that you did not deserve your salvation. I will allow any amount of disrespect towards me, and disbelief and lack of faith, but you will not speak that way of yourself. Am I clear?"

Dean nodded, and whispered, "Sorry, Cas."

Dean breathed a little easier as Castiel's grip on his shirt loosened, but didn't release, and the angel's other hand came to rest against his face, and his expression was unreadable but impassioned as he murmured, "This thing that you are asking, Dean. _This_ is why you are saved, and why you will always be saved. Know that. Know that you are the kind of man who asks for this, and that you are the kind of man who deserves his salvation."

And as Castiel's fingers brushed his forehead, Dean felt peace.

* * *

Dean Winchester woke up in Hell, which was weird, because you don't get to lose consciousness, not here.

Dean had been in Hell for nearly ten years.

Ten years out of eternity didn't mean much when there was no one coming for you.


	26. Epilogue: Martha Jones

Author's Note: And this is, indeed, the last chapter, leading into new stories to come! This has been a pleasure to write and I'm totally overwhelmed by the response. Thank you guys so much for all the kindness you've shown me and I'm so glad that you've enjoyed the story. The poll will be open for a few more days so that you can voice your opinion on what's next! Again, thanks, everybody, and I hope that the story's been worth following. :)

* * *

_September, 2008 (take two)_

The new office was small, but it was large enough to suit her needs.

Really it was less an _office _than it was a _desk_, but Martha liked to think of it as her office. It made her feel all _official_, which made sense, because an _official_ should have an _office_. But whatever it was, it was hers. Her new headquarters, here in the beginning of her new life.

Life away from the Doctor.

Away from Dean.

She pinched her arm, wincing, because she wasn't going to think of it that way. It wasn't her life _without_ Dean. It was her life _before_ Dean. After Dean, too, but that way lies wibbly-wobbliness and her head already ached a bit from moving her stuff in.

She'd asked the Doctor, before they parted ways, if it was okay that she kept a picture of Dean on her desk, given that in September, 2008, she hadn't met him yet. Not the Martha who lived 2008 the first time. Not that that Martha had lived 2008 sequentially, but...she'd been here, been now, before, or near enough, and she didn't want to cause some kind of mini-paradox.

_"Yes," _the Doctor had said, and there had been this strange expression on his face. _"Yes, of course, Martha, you can keep the picture. After all you've been through it's the least you've earned. Just, if someone asks, tell them...tell them he's someone important. Don't give a name. Just someone important."_

And the Doctor's face had gone dark and sad as he added, _"One of the most important men in the world."_

She hung the last calendar on the wall—a 2008 calendar, situated precariously above a thick stack of other calendars: 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. She'd gotten them printed up specially, so they weren't decorated, just boxes and dates with months in good old reliable Times New Roman on the top of the page. But it wasn't important because she didn't need pictures of puppies or waterfalls. She just needed to be able to keep reminding herself of where she'd be in four years.

She let the calendar go, fingers brushing over the edges as she felt a strange reluctance to stop the contact entirely. _Silly, sentimental_, she admonished herself, but couldn't change how she felt. Those calendars were her countdown, and as much as she wanted to get started counting down, she didn't want to fathom how long it was until she'd hit the last calendar.

Her chair creaked as she sat heavily in it, spreading her fingers over the glass surface of her desk. She looked down and lifted her name plate, a smile tugging on the corners of her lips despite her wishes. _Dr. Martha Jones, MD._ She liked the way that looked. UNIT had expedited the end of her medical training, seeing as she had plenty of field experience from her travels with the Doctor.

(Mostly patching up one Time Lord and two Winchesters, but, details.)

So _Dr._ Martha Jones, _MD_, placed her name plate back on the desk, and picked up the picture she hadn't been sure wouldn't break time.

_"Dean!"_

_Saxon grabbed Sam by the ankle and pulled hard, dragging him away just enough for him to lose contact with Castiel and stumble for just a moment before the angel disappeared with his brother. She stared in horror at Sam, because as soon as the Doctor told Castiel what he had to do, she'd understood._

_Sam had survived one summer of 2008 without Dean. It killed her that he'd have to survive another._

_"Everyone down!" the Doctor cried. "Time is reversing!"_

_The ship rocked and everybody fell to the ground, Martha facing the Doctor. And the Doctor locked eyes with her and he looked so _sorry_ that it froze Martha's blood._

_When the Doctor was sorry, people were dying. When the Doctor was sorry, things were anything but all right._

Martha understood why the Doctor had made Castiel take Dean away. She knew that it was an impossible thing to ask him to suffer through Hell twice, remembering the first time like it had happened—eighty years in the Pit. But it was so much _better_ in that year. He'd _recovered_, he'd been better. He and Castiel weren't at each other's throats constantly. He'd learned how to trust and he'd remembered how to smile and he'd even believed in the Doctor, even if only for a moment.

And _God_ she wished the Doctor hadn't made him go. She knew that now, no matter what happened, no matter how much alike or how different Dean's time line turned out compared to the one she'd lived, there would be this _thing_ between them, separating them, this secret that she couldn't let him know...this year they'd both lived, but only she remembered.

After so long, Martha hated secrets.

_Once the ship had stilled, Jack had grabbed Saxon and was asking what to do with him, but Martha went up to Sam. He met her eyes and said, "He's not going to remember, is he?"_

_"Nothing," Martha replied._

_Sam's jaw worked for a second, but he set it and nodded once. "Good," he said. "No, good. He shouldn't have to...shouldn't have to know he had to do it twice."_

_Martha reached out to touch Sam's arm, but pulled back at the last moment, because no, this wasn't her Sam. This was some strange Sam, some alternate Sam. "It's not twice," she said softly, "because even though we remember it, that year never happened. It truly didn't, Sam. We're back in May 2008, and Dean...he just..."_

_She broke off._

_"He just got there," Sam finished, monotone. Martha nodded. "Right." He ran his hands through his long, unkempt hair, and added dully, "I just have to wait for him again."_

_"You know he's coming back this time," Martha said softly._

_"Yeah," Sam murmured. "But I had him back. And I let him get dragged to Hell again. That's a hard thing to forgive, Martha."_

Martha hadn't spoken to anyone since May, except for one visit from the Doctor—a visit during which she'd asked about the picture, they'd sort of vaguely caught up, and then he'd left. She hadn't tried to call Sam, even though she knew he remembered. He didn't want to hear from her, and she couldn't blame him. It would do him no good to obsess more than he already was over things he couldn't control. And she'd only remind him of Dean.

And he'd remind her. The picture on her desk was a promise. Sam was knife-wound that she could either ignore or keep twisting the weapon into, at least until Dean was back.

This was how it had gone the first time, and Martha knew that. She knew that the Dean she'd fallen for was the Dean who'd been shattered in Hell, who picked himself up and put the pieces back together as best he could. She knew that the moment she realized how she felt, she'd been helping him fit one of those puzzle pieces back together. And none of her memories were changing, so she knew things were progressing the way they had last time.

This time.

Last time—

She rubbed the heels of her hands viciously into her eyes, trying to clear them of something that she wasn't going to admit were tears. She was exhausted. She was ready to stop moving and sit down and get some paperwork done, because she still had a _ton_ of new-hire paperwork left to do, and if she didn't get to it she was going to lose the resolve.

She just wondered why they couldn't fix it. Castiel and the Doctor. The Doctor knew what happened to Dean, he _knew_, he'd been there, Dean had told her. And Castiel, of course Castiel knew. He'd been the one to dive into Hell and pull Dean out. So why couldn't they change it? It couldn't be that _everything_ in Dean's and Sam's lives were fixed points. Time was in flux, the paradox machine was up, everything else was changing around them, why couldn't that, too?

Why couldn't they save him?

_Lucy Saxon stood with the smoking gun in her hand, and the Doctor cradled the Master as he died, refusing to regenerate, refusing to keep the Doctor from being alone. Lucy shook, staring at the man who'd ruined her life, the man she'd just killed. And Martha sympathized, she did. Because Lucy...Lucy was basically a negative version of herself, Companion to a dark mirror of the Doctor, pulled along and manipulated and abused (it was obvious, her bruises weren't hidden, and even if they had been Martha knew the dullness in her eyes had come from something) and Lucy knew she was on the wrong side of history, so she'd tried to right it._

_Martha understood that: being pulled to pieces by tides of history, by forces too big for you, by powers you hadn't imagined existed a year ago. Hers was benevolent; she couldn't imagine what it would be like, if the Doctor were otherwise. But as it was she didn't blame Lucy for pulling the trigger. The devastation in the Doctor's posture meant she wasn't glad for it; but she didn't blame her._

_Sam was quiet, but there was a fire in his eyes that was alarmingly familiar. He watched the life leave the Master's eyes. And he..._he _looked glad._

_Sam had been made victim by Harold Saxon. By the Master. He'd been forced to be complicit, or pretend he was, in the world-ending plans Saxon had made. Sam had been forced to be active, and it was an active hate, an active gladness, in his eyes. His eyes, which looked so sharp, so fierce in the strange light of a day they'd already lived._

_Martha knew that look. The eyes of the Sam Winchester that Sammy Winchester always spent so much time and effort trying to hide, but who lived just beneath the surface._

_The Sam Winchester who was so very, very much like the Doctor._

Martha put the picture down gently, fearing irrationally that if she wasn't careful with it, time would take it from her. The picture was taken in 2009; she was afraid that if she drew too much attention to it, if she handled it too roughly, 2008 might notice it and take it away. And she couldn't do that. That picture and a red ring around a date were all she had.

She'd said good-bye to the Doctor. She'd walked away from that fantastic life of traveling and adventure and seeing the stars, and she didn't regret it. UNIT was the right place for her. She'd seen enough; it was time to protect her own time, her own place, from the ravages of the cosmos. She'd gotten a good education out of it, and now she had a good job. A fulfilling job. An _important_ job, although everything seemed a little less important, now. A nine-to-five. Paperwork. A bloody _desk_.

Dean never had a desk. He'd laugh to see her now.

At least, she hoped he'd laugh. Because the other option was him looking at her like she was a stranger. Again. The other option was light fading from his expression as he closed off to her because she wasn't in The Life anymore, and he didn't want to drag her back into it.

Because the Winchesters always protected everyone else first. And because Dean never understood that wanting to protect her didn't give him the right to make decisions for her.

_"You won't remember, either," Sam said. Martha hugged her jacket tighter around her: the London air seemed biting, even though it was mid-May, but she hardly minded because being on solid ground once again just felt so amazing. The edge was dulled by the sickening resignation in Sam's voice._

_"It'll be me and the Doctor from before any of this happened that you'll meet," she affirmed, and Sam nodded. "I'm so sorry, Sam."_

_"You did it," Sam replied. "I can do it."_

_"Doesn't mean you should have to," Martha said softly._

_"That's never stopped my life from sucking before," said Sam, but he broke off when Martha grabbed his hand and held her other hand out towards the Doctor, making a 'gimme' motion._

_"Pen," Martha ordered, and, startled, the Doctor obeyed. She took the pen, uncapped it with her teeth, and wrote a string of numbers on Sam's palm._

_He watched her warily while she did it, not attempting to stop her. "What's, uh," he began, then gave her a moment to re-cap the pen and give it back to the Doctor. "What's this?"_

_"My phone number," Martha replied. "You call me, Sam Winchester. When it gets lonely. When it gets hard. I remember. This me remembers. You can't let anyone know you're doing it...you can't let me or the Doctor or Dean or anybody know you're doing it, but if it gets too hard, you call me."_

_"Martha—"_

_"I know you don't know me," she said, and she still hadn't let his hand go. "I know we're strangers. But I remember Harold Saxon. I remember work camps and Toclaphane and the end of the world we almost didn't avert. And other than the Doctor, Jack, and my family, I'm the only other person on the planet who does remember."_

_Sam's eyes flicked down to the numbers on his palm._

_"So when you need me," she said, "call. Any time. Day or night. You can't ask me to tell you what happens, but I'll always be there to talk."_

_Sam nodded._

_"And..." Martha began, then broke off, but Sam waited. "When...when he comes back. Will you call me? Will you let me know?"_

_There was an agonizingly long moment where Sam said nothing, but then he took a deep breath and nodded. "Of course," he said, in a way that meant the opposite of _of course_ and meant _only because I don't know how to tell you no.

_But that was enough for Martha._

Her fingers were hovering over the picture again when the phone rang.

She jolted, almost falling out of her chair, and then scrambled for the phone on her desk before realizing that it was her personal cell phone that was ringing. She dug into the pockets of her jacket, hanging on the back of her chair, and fumbled the phone out of it.

The caller ID read _Sam_.

And the calendar said _September, 2008_.

Her heart was in her throat, but she flipped the phone open. "H-hello?" she murmured.

There was a long silence, and then a hitched intake of breath, before: "Martha."

"Sam, are you—are you all right?" Martha managed, though her words were strangled and it was a labor to get them out.

A pause, as though Sam had nodded and then remembered he was on the phone. "I'm—fine. I'm fine. But it's, uh. It's September."

Martha's pulse quickened, her heart thudding. "Is he—"

"He's back," Sam said quickly. "He's okay, Martha. He's back." Another pause. "_Is_ he okay?"

"Sam," Martha admonished, although it killed her to do so. "I told you back in London—"

"That I can't ask you to tell me the future," Sam finished, his voice dull.

"How does he seem?" Martha asked.

"Off," Sam answered honestly. "Confused. Like everything's a little too bright. Castiel's not here yet...I thought he came back with Dean."

"Not the first time," Martha said, figuring that wasn't too much information. "He met Dean first thing last time because the Toclaphane would've found him, and Cas could tell he was in trouble. This time he doesn't have that to worry about."

"At least that's one thing we don't have to worry about," Sam muttered. "My brother's been in Hell for a year and the angel who pulled him out's a no-show, _and_ I can't even tell him I know what it is that saved him, but at least the Spheres are gone."

Martha leaned back in her chair, passing a trembling hand over her face. "Hey, Martha?" Sam's voice came through the phone, sounding uncertain.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you want me to call, when he got back?" Sam asked, with the tone of somebody who knew he didn't want to hear the answer to the question he'd just posed. "I mean, didn't you know when he'd get back?"

Martha hesitated. "I just...I needed to know. To make sure. With the paradox machine, and time being so fragile, I just...I needed confirmation that—"

"Was there a chance it might've turned out differently?" Sam demanded, and Martha winced at the heat in his voice. When she didn't respond right away, he pressed. "Martha? Are you telling me that there was a chance Dean might not have come back?"

"I don't _know_, Sam," Martha snapped. "I'm not a Time Lord. I don't know what effects the paradox machine might have. The Doctor obviously thought he'd come back like he had before, but I just...I don't know. I'm as lost in this as you are."

Sam let out his breath in a hiss. "Look, I don't give a crap about the _time line_ or _paradoxes_ or any of that. What I care about is my brother. And if you let me sit here, useless, while there was a chance he wouldn't escape from Hell, then you can—"

A too-familiar voice interrupted Sam's threat, or whatever it was going to be. "Hey, Sammy!"

Martha's breath caught. "Oh, god," she whispered.

"Just a minute!" Sam hollered. His voice was quieter when he returned to the phone. "He's back, Martha. I called you. We're done."

"Fine," Martha bit out. "If you change your mind, I'll answer the call."

A faint _click_ and silence were the only replies she received.

So Martha put her phone down on her desk, turned to her calendars, and reverently took them off one by one until she reached 2012. She turned to the middle of the year and ran her finger over the red circle she'd drawn over a date.

The latest date the Doctor had brought her to where she'd seen Dean and Sam.

The date until which she couldn't return to America, not where the Winchesters were.

The day on which she'd hop on a plane and go back to States, finally caught up with Dean's time line, finally able to experience time alongside him...linear, slow path, normal.

She steeled herself and hung 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008 on top of the red circle.

She'd promised him she could wait.

And she would.

Martha would wait.


End file.
